Searching for a Sign
by Larissa3
Summary: My first fan fiction, and my first M/R. ::COMPLETE!::
1. Searching for a Sign

A/N: Hi everyone! ::waves:: This is my first Rentfic, and my first attempt at M/R slash. I own nothing—Jonathan Larson owns the characters, and Matt Caplan owns the song. Please review, or send me email at LarissaOR15@hotmail.com, pretty please? Hope you like! --Larissa  
  
  
  
1 Searching for a Sign  
  
  
  
1.1 It's not that I'm stupid  
  
It's not that I'm scheming  
  
It's not that I'm searching for a sign  
  
It's not that I'm righteous  
  
And it's not that I'm unfeeling  
  
I don't expect you to be mine.  
  
--Matt Caplan  
  
I can feel his gaze from across the room. He thinks I don't know he's looking, but I do. He's trying not to look at me on the couch, my arm around Mimi's shoulders, my hand playing with her dark curly hair. He doesn't want to look, but he can't help it, any more than I can help feeling guilty for what I'm doing to my best friend.  
  
I'm a sick bastard. Never claimed to be anything else. I was always allowed to be difficult. I could be the tough rock star, or the pissed off junkie, or any role I wanted. I could yell and scream and slam doors. I could go out and thoroughly fuck up my life, then come back to my friends and beg them to put it back together. And they would, because after the hell I'd put them through, they still loved me.  
  
Mark was always there for me, no matter what. I'd stumble home in the wee morning hours, and retch up my last three meals, and he was the one who'd clean up the bathroom. When my friends got together to tell me I had to do something about my drug problem, it was Mark who arranged the intervention. It was Mark who faithfully traveled to the pharmacy every month to refill my AZT prescription, and it was Mark who risked his life by cleaning up April's blood from the bathtub so I wouldn't have to see that, on top of everything else.  
  
We go back a long way. Five, six years at least, ever since I hopped off the bus in New York and saw the For Rent sign in the window of the loft. During all those days and nights since, I can't remember him losing his temper with me. "Roger, I'm worried about you," he'd say. "Roger, I wish you'd think again before doing that." But never "Dammit, Roger, what the fuck is going on" or "Don't be a shithead, Roger, that's the dumbest thing I've ever heard." He was always patient when it came to me. Always giving of himself. He could be going through his own personal hell, and he'd drop it in a moment if he thought I needed him.  
  
I know he cares about me. He's proven that time and time again. And I know he loves me. Not how you'd love a friend, or a brother, but the way you love someone with your entire heart and soul, and yet you can't breathe a word of it, for fear of destroying what you already share.  
  
I don't remember exactly when I became aware of this. The first thing I remember was after one of our pizza and movie nights. Benny was spending the summer abroad in Europe with his family, and we hadn't met Collins yet. Ditto Maureen. Benny had been the one who cooked, so needless to say, Mark and I were left to takeout and the occasional batch of waffles in his absence. We'd order in, stick a cheesy horror flick in the VCR, and chow down in silence, two men watching big breasted girls get hacked to pieces on the screen. This particular time, I'd gotten up early to audition a new drummer for my band. As a result, I was more tired than usual, and I fell asleep halfway through the movie.  
  
When I woke up, the TV screen was blank. The lights were off, and I thought that Mark had draped a blanket over me and gone to bed. I felt someone stroking my hair, and for a moment, I was sure I was still dreaming. But when I opened my eyes further, I could see that this was no dream, and it was Mark stroking my hair. I didn't know what to say, or to do, so I closed my eyes again and hoped that when I opened them again, he'd be gone and I'd be able to sort everything out.  
  
I still would have written it off as a dream, except I kept picking up on other signs through the years. How nervous he got when we were alone for too long. The way he seemed almost relieved whenever I broke up with a girlfriend. How when I cut my hand, and he bandaged it for me (this was in the pre-HIV days), he held onto it a split second longer than necessary, and how his cheeks burned afterwards.  
  
But there was plenty of reason for that to all be coincidence, and for the most part, I was able to put it out of my mind and go on being roommates and best friends. I'd bring over my girlfriends, and tried to ignore the glimpse of pain that flickered across his face before he'd smile and introduce himself to her.  
  
It's more than the occasional glimpse this time, though. If I looked at him at just the right moment, I'd see more anguish than I could live with. I've found a fragile happiness with Mimi, when I thought I'd never smile again. I can't lose that. It's all that I have. And if it means that I have to sacrifice my best friend to keep it, then I will, because Roger Davis is a heartless son of a bitch.  
  
It happened a week ago. I'd been moping around the loft, as was my custom since April died. Mark and I had a routine established. He'd knock on my door at precisely six thirty, and try to talk me into going out for a bite to eat. I'd refuse, and Mark would leave. I'd lie on my bed and stare up at the ceiling until he got back, always bringing something back for me. He would give me the food, and shut the door, leaving me to mope some more, and pick at whatever he'd brought for me that night.  
  
It didn't happen that way on Tuesday night, though. We had gone according to schedule right up to eight thirty, when Mark knocked on my door and handed me a veggie wrap. I thanked him and started to close the door when he stepped inside and said he wanted to say something to me.  
  
I can still see him standing there, his hands in his pockets, his scarf hanging loosely around his neck. It started out the same as always. "I'm worried about you, Roger," he said. I'd heard this part so much, I could almost recite it myself. "You won't talk to anyone, you isolate yourself in your room for days at a time, and you forget to take your AZT. I hate seeing you like this."  
  
I nodded and waited patiently for the next part. He would urge me to call Collins, claiming that he had been down this road himself, and might have some good advice for me.  
  
"And I can't do this anymore," Mark continued.  
  
I picked up my head. This was different. "What?"  
  
"I can't do this anymore," he repeated, his voice shaking. "Roger, you're my best friend. I love you, but I can't just sit here and watch you die."  
  
I shook my head, still unable to comprehend what he was saying. "Huh?"  
  
"I've found another apartment," I heard him say. Everything he said after that didn't sink in at all. Mark was leaving me. After all these months, after all we'd been through, I'd finally managed to drive away the only person I had left.  
  
"Mark, no, please," I begged. "Don't leave."  
  
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I have to do this."  
  
I felt it before I heard it. A long, low wail of misery, filling up my chest and lungs and pouring out of my mouth until the room was full of it. My breath became ragged, and tears splashed down onto my hands. "Don't leave me, Mark," I sobbed, holding out my hands to him. "Don't leave me all alone."  
  
"Oh, God, Roger," Mark whispered, and then he sat down next to me and wrapped his arms around me. "I'm so sorry."  
  
"Don't go," I insisted, burying my face in his shoulder. "I need you, Mark."  
  
"Shhhh," he whispered, stroking the back of my hair with one hand, and rubbing my back with the other. "I'm not going anywhere."  
  
He held me until my sobs slackened, and my tears dried. When we finally pulled apart, I saw that he had been crying too.  
  
"It's going to be okay, Roger," Mark promised me. "We're going to make it through this."  
  
His hand was still on my neck. What happened next happened as easily as if it had been planned all along. Our faces moved closer, our eyes closed, and our lips joined together.  
  
The kiss was like Mark itself; sweet and gentle. When I put my hand up to his face, I could feel his heart thumping beneath my fingers, in a regular and soothing rhythm. I was surprised at how easy and natural this felt. How right it seemed.  
  
We slept together in my bed that night. Mark held onto me tightly, his arms around my waist, and his breath warm and sweet on my shoulder. "I love you," I heard him whisper, late at night, after I had been lying still for ages, and he thought I was asleep.  
  
When I woke up the next morning, the bed was empty, and I figured it had all been a dream, and a strange one at that. I went out into the kitchen, and saw Mark making waffles, and call me crazy, but when he smiled at me and wished me a good morning, I knew for a fact that last night had been no dream. It was obvious in the little bounce in his step, and the tune he hummed as he poured the syrup over his waffles. No, last night had been no dream, and now that the morning had come, I had no idea what the fuck I was supposed to do.  
  
"Some night, huh?" Mark laughed, handing me my plate of waffles.  
  
"Some night," I agreed. "I must have been bombed out of my mind, because I can't remember a thing."  
  
I'll never forget the way his face fell, or how I felt in the exact moment when I saw his heart break. I felt guilty as hell, much the same as I do now, kissing Mimi when I know that Mark's watching us from his corner of the room.  
  
Why do I pretend it didn't happen? I honestly don't know. Perhaps it's because I don't want to believe that I'm gay. Maybe it goes along with a sensitive filmmaker, but it's a lot harder to be homosexual when you're a moody rock star. Or perhaps it's because I'm not gay, and that night was a simple mistake, and I can't bear to break Mark's heart by telling him I don't feel the same way.  
  
Perhaps it's because I destroy everything and everyone I care about, and I'm trying to spare Mark the hell that comes from loving me.  
  
Except I can't. I'm already destroying him, every time I touch Mimi, and every time Mark risks a glance at me, and I turn away. He's sitting over there right now, searching for a sign that I remember even a little bit of what happened, and for the tiniest shred of hope that I might feel the same way.  
  
I was broken all along. Now I'm breaking Mark as well. 


	2. If I Destroy the Meek

A/N: Wow, I'm overwhelmed! Katia, Danielle, Liss, Aella, and BabyCaramel, thank you so much for your support and I'm thrilled that my favorite authors liked something that I wrote! Here's the next part of what's shaping up to be a lengthy saga, and I hope it doesn't disappoint! -- Larissa  
  
  
  
Mark POV  
  
Roger's been living down at Mimi's for the past two months. It feels strange having the loft all to myself. Last year it was full of people: Collins, Maureen, Roger and April. And now it's down to one. The only remaining survivor.  
  
I hate myself for the jealousy I feel. After seven months of being afraid to leave him alone for fear he'd slit his wrists while my back was turned, I should be happy to see Roger laughing, and strumming on his guitar again while the sunlight turns his hair to a rich golden blond. I loved watching him play; his deft, able fingers plucking out chords that resonated with his strong, rich voice. I should be overjoyed that he's feeling so much better, and yet I'm not. Far from it.  
  
What kind of friend am I?  
  
All I feel is envy for the small, dark-haired girl who sits on his lap and feeds him bits of food, who Roger smiles at as he strums a few notes from the song that he's writing just for her. I spent six years loving him, and she comes into his life and captures his heart within an evening.  
  
It would be so much easier if I could hate her. That was the nice thing about April. I could say that she wasn't good for Roger, and that her wild lifestyle was going to get both of them in trouble. There were so many valid reasons to disapprove of her that I could pretend that I wasn't simply jealous because she was with him and I wasn't.  
  
It's not like that with Mimi. She's sweet, she's loving, and it would be damn near impossible not to like her. And I do like her, which makes my envy that much harder to deal with.  
  
The nights are the worst of all. I lie sprawled on my back across my mattress, staring up into the darkness at the ceiling, trying not to think about what Roger and Mimi were most likely doing at that very moment. I count my breaths, and wonder what it would be like to just stop. To go peacefully into the night, and not have to worry about anything anymore.  
  
I know I'm being irrational about this. I have so much in my life to be thankful. My friends. Career opportunities. My health, and that's more than most of my friends have. I have the rest of my life, whereas Roger isn't as lucky. Mimi's all he has. Well, Mimi and me, except judging by how often he visits, he seems to have decided that Mimi is more than enough for him.  
  
Why has he abandoned me? What have I done to make him hate me?  
  
  
  
Roger POV  
  
I woke abruptly and without warning. Mimi was curled up next to me, making that little snoring noise in her sleep that I always found absolutely adorable. The first light of the day was beginning to creep in underneath the blinds, and the bedside clock read five thirty. I could have gone back to sleep, but I felt the urge to drop by the loft and see how Mark was doing. At this hour, he was probably asleep, but every so often he'd stay up all night putting together film segments from the last week or so.  
  
The door was unlocked, same as it always was. The loft was dark, but there was enough light to let me make out the shape of a small figure, huddled at the end of the couch.  
  
"Hey, Mark?" I kept my voice low, in case he was sleeping.  
  
"Hey," he replied dully. "What's up."  
  
"Just thought I'd come by and visit my best friend," I continued, plunking down next to him on the couch. "You working again?"  
  
He shook his head. "Couldn't sleep."  
  
"Hey, it's almost six in the morning. Are you okay?" I asked.  
  
His voice was harsh and bitter. "Do I look like I'm okay?"  
  
"You're not sick, are you?" I continued. "You know, the flu's been going around--  
  
"I don't have the flu," he snapped. I must have looked shocked, because he softened his voice a little. "I'm just being stupid, Roger. Don't mind me."  
  
"Mark, don't talk like that," I told him. "You don't have to put yourself down all the time."  
  
"Well, what the fuck do you want me to do?" he yelled, leaping to his feet and clenching his fists at his sides. "Tell you I think you're a selfish bastard?"  
  
"What the hell are you talking about?" I shouted back, more out of surprise than anything. I thrived on conflict. The rush I got from fighting was as close as I got to being high anymore, and I loved it.  
  
"I'm talking about you being a real shithead!" Mark bellowed. "You're a first class asshole, Roger Davis!"  
  
"Jesus Christ, all I did was ask if you had the flu!" I screamed. "How does that qualify me as a shithead?"  
  
"Oh, God, Roger." Mark shook his head. "You don't even see, do you?"  
  
"Maybe I'd know what the fuck you were talking about if you'd just tell me!" I continued, having worked myself into an almost pleasurable rage. "But no, I'm supposed to be a goddamn mindreader, and know what poor little Marky's thinking."  
  
"You know what your problem is?" He shoved a lock of hair out of his face, which was beginning to turn red. "You're so goddamn self-absorbed. You're incapable of thinking of anyone except yourself."  
  
"Yeah, right." I rolled my eyes. "Whatever."  
  
"Dammit, Roger!" he cried. "I took care of you for seven fucking months. I've been your nursemaid, and your shoulder to cry on, and now that you're feeling better, I don't matter anymore!"  
  
"I never asked you to do that for me!" I insisted. "If you wanted to, then how is that my problem?"  
  
"You think you can just walk out on me after all we've been through," he continued. "Suddenly I'm not good enough for you anymore, so you just pack up and leave until you fuck up again, and I'm supposed to save you from it. I don't need that, Roger. I don't need that, and I don't need you."  
  
"Fine!" I yelled back. "I don't need you either! Go ahead and leave, see if I care!" I paused, remembering that I lived at Mimi's now. "Better yet, I'll leave! I'm *gone*!"  
  
The door slammed behind me with a resonating thud, and I felt a sense of relief come over me, like I always did whenever I'd ended a fight with the upper hand. I stalked down the stairs to Mimi's, still feeling the adrenaline that was flowing through my blood. It wasn't until later, when I'd let myself back in and climbed back in bed beside my girlfriend that I began to worry.  
  
I'd said some harsh things to Mark back there. That was how I fought; lots of anger, lots of obscenities. It worked well against, say, Benny, who was perfectly capable of going head to head against me in one of my rages.  
  
But this was Mark. Shy, sweet, sensitive Mark. He didn't know how to defend himself like other guys did. I'd always have to defend him when Benny started in on him. I was the one who took care of him, and now I'd turned on him.  
  
You're overdramatizing, Roger, I told myself. Mark's a big boy. He can handle a little conflict. Who knows, maybe this'll be good for him.  
  
I tried to convince myself of this as the room grew brighter and the city came to life outside the window. Finally around six thirty, I fell into an uneasy sleep.  
  
  
  
Mark POV  
  
I lasted about ten seconds on my feet after Roger stormed out before I crumpled to the couch in a heap. I'd been determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry, but he was gone now, and most likely never coming back. I punched the sofa cushion furiously as the tears dripped down my face, hating myself for being so weak. Why did I have to be born so spineless? Why couldn't I just tell him the truth?  
  
Yeah, right, like that would go over well. Roger, I think you're an arrogant asshole, and I love you. Way to freak him out. Not like it mattered now. Roger held grudges for longer than anyone else I knew. He'd never forgiven Benny for a couple of comments he made about April last year. After this spectacular little blowup, I'd be on his shit list for the rest of my life.  
  
Roger drives me crazy. He's thoughtless, he's insensitive, and as the recent encounter proved, he has a vicious temper. But he can also be kind and gentle and downright amazing to know. I was always surprised that someone as brilliant and talented as him would ever want to be friends with a nerdy little filmmaker like me.  
  
I wasn't sure when I stopped thinking of him as my slightly eccentric, but funny and cool roommate and started wishing that I could mean more to him. I hadn't even known I was gay. Girls were never attracted to me in school, but I attributed that to my dorky glasses and painful shyness rather than any lack of desire on my part. I had dated girls, had kissed them and gone to bed with them. And it was fun, but I always felt that there was something missing in my relationships.  
  
With Roger, my stomach got nervous and jumpy every time he came in the door. When he smiled at me, my world lit up, and when we'd go out for a bite of dinner together, the day was pressed for preservation and stored carefully in the scrapbook in my mind. I knew he didn't feel the same way. I saw the groups of giggling girls who waited for him after every performance of his, and the constant stream of women he brought home.  
  
What Roger and I had was a simple friendship, nothing more. I should have considered myself lucky to have even that. But that night, when I told him I was moving out, and he cried and begged me not to…That night I could have sworn there was something more that I was seeing for the first time. There was a tenderness in that kiss, but also a fire and a passion that wasn't just coming from me. That night, I let myself believe that he might actually love me, not as his friend, not as his roommate, but as Mark, and only Mark.  
  
But that happened over two months ago, and Roger doesn't remember a thing. How can I remind him of it?  
  
I can't. 


	3. For Giving Someone More

A/N: Thanks for the reviews, guys, keep them coming! I have an outline of where this is going, so I should be updating fairly regularly, assuming finals aren't too tough and my sister doesn't hog the computer like she has a tendency to do!  
  
Without further ado, may I present Chapter Three, in which Roger and Mark make up, and in which Roger has a birthday. --Larissa  
  
It's not that I respect you any less  
  
For giving someone more  
  
--Matt Caplan  
  
  
  
Mark POV  
  
I woke up the next morning with that horrible feeling you get when you've slept in your clothes. My mouth tasted like cotton and I spent a few moments lying there on the couch attempting to decide whether I wanted a shower or a drink of water first.  
  
Lying on the couch. In my clothes. Why was I…and then I remembered. Last night. Roger. The screaming fight and barbed words we'd hurled back and forth at each other. The feeling of utter despair that washed over me when he slammed the door behind him, and how damp the pillow felt beneath my head as my tears dripped onto it.  
  
Thinking about last night brought back that sick feeling in my stomach and I hastily scrambled to my feet, stripping off my shirt and throwing it onto the back of the couch as I made my way to the bathroom, where I shed the rest of my clothes and leapt into the shower. The water was almost scalding, and turned my skin a bright red, but I remained underneath it, wincing from the heat and feeling grateful for the pain that took my mind away from the previous night's events.  
  
I stayed in the shower until the water turned cold and I began shivering. I had just toweled off and tugged on a pair of jeans when I heard a knock on the door. I ignored it. I wasn't in any mood for company. I ran my fingers through my wet hair, and the knock came again, louder this time. I sighed, wiped my face with the towel one last time, and went to open the door.  
  
"Hi, Mark." Roger's eyes flickered over me. "Can I come in?"  
  
If I hadn't been in such shock, I would have told him not to be stupid, that he lived here and could come in any time he wanted. Except he didn't anymore. He lived downstairs with Mimi.  
  
I quickly tore my thoughts away from that, since Roger was still watching me intently. I stepped to the side and held the door open. "Come in."  
  
His eyes jumped around the room as he came in. He was obviously uncomfortable, and waiting for me to say something first. Except I couldn't, even if I'd wanted to.  
  
"I'm sorry," he blurted out. "I said some pretty awful things last night."  
  
"You sure did," I agreed before I could help myself. His head shot up and he fixed me with his gaze. "But," I continued, desperate not to turn this into a repeat of last night, "I said some things myself. I'm sorry too."  
  
He looked relieved when I said that. "I'm glad we could work this out. Friends?"  
  
What else could I say? "Friends."  
  
He hugged me then, one of those crushing, desperate hugs that say I don't want to lose you and I'm sorry and You're so important to me all at once. I put my arms around him and hugged him back, feeling the oh so familiar mix of pleasure and pain. I never could decide whether being so close to him like this was worth the agony that immediately followed.  
  
"That's better," he said when we broke apart, giving me a weak smile. "You still coming to the party tomorrow?"  
  
To be honest, I'd rather eat Maureen's cooking than spend the entire afternoon watching Roger and Mimi hug and kiss while I stood off in the corner with my camera, wondering if the piece of metal I held in my hand would be all I'd ever have. All my friends were paired off now. Collins had Angel, Benny had Alison, Maureen had Joanne, and of course, Roger had Mimi. They did their best to include me, of course, but I couldn't help feeling like a third wheel at times. I didn't belong anymore. There was no room for a single individual in a group of couples.  
  
But I couldn't tell Roger this. Not when we'd just made up. Not on the day before his birthday, for God's sake. "Of course I'll be there," I told him. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."  
  
"Excellent." He gave me that fabulous smile of his that I'd missed so much in the past year. "I've got to run now. Mimi's taking me shopping for clothes for tomorrow night."  
  
Mimi. Of course. I plastered my usual bright, artificial smile on my face. "You'd better get going then. Wouldn't want to keep her waiting."  
  
"You're right," he agreed. "See you tomorrow!" Another smile, a wave of his hand, and he bounded down the stairs and out of my life again.  
  
I shut the door, feeling the familiar depression come crashing down on me. It always ended the same way. Roger would run back to his latest girlfriend, and I would be left alone to wonder why the hell I was wasting my life like this. Roger had made it perfectly clear that he didn't think of me as any more than a close friend. Why couldn't I be happy with that?  
  
I groaned and flopped back onto the couch. These thoughts always took forever to sort out, and it wasn't a pleasant process.  
  
It was going to be a long morning.  
  
  
  
Sometime that evening, a knock came at the door again. I groaned and rolled off the couch, wondering why I had to be so popular on today, of all days, when what I wanted most was to be left alone.  
  
"Mark?" It was Mimi this time, all five feet of her. Well, wasn't this terribly awkward? The devoted girlfriend, and the best friend who was secretly in love with her boyfriend.  
  
Cut it out, Mark, I told myself firmly. It's not her fault Roger doesn't love you.  
  
"Come on in." I held the door open for her. "So what's up?"  
  
"Mark, I need your help," she pleaded. "I ordered Roger's birthday present two weeks ago, and it's still not here, and I don't know what I'm going to do!"  
  
"I'm sure he'll understand if you explain it to him," I offered. "He'll know it's not your fault."  
  
She shook her head sadly. "It's just that I love him so much, and I wanted to get him a gift that showed him how special I thought he was."  
  
I could certainly understand how that felt. "Hey, wait here a minute," I told her. "I'll be right back."  
  
It was buried in the back of my closet, carefully wrapped in newspaper and hidden in a box to keep it away from prying eyes. I'd gone through hell to find a recording of Roger's band, the Well Hungarians. They had broken up three years ago, the members scattered across the country. It took me months to track down this record, and I'd imagined millions of times Roger tearing off the wrapping paper, stopping in surprise at what it was, and the tears in his eyes as he thanked me. He would love it. And although this was a dimmer hope, he might love me for giving it to him.  
  
I held the record in my hands for a moment, then walked back to the living room and handed it to Mimi. "Here. You can give him this."  
  
She looked at the record, and back up at me. "Mark, I can't take this."  
  
"Please," I insisted. "He'll love it."  
  
"What about you?" she asked. "I can't just take your present for him."  
  
"Don't worry about it," I insisted. "I've got some other stuff he'd like."  
  
"Thank you," she whispered, reaching up and pecking me on the cheek. "You're sweet, Mark."  
  
"Go on, now," I told her, shooing her toward the door. "Don't you have a party to plan?"  
  
"You're right," she agreed. "See you tomorrow?"  
  
"You bet you will." It was funny, really, how I could smile this much when my heart was breaking. "See you then."  
  
When she left, I took out my camera and held it away from me so it filmed my face. "Close on Mark," I began. "Yet another chapter in this saga of loneliness and heartbreak."  
  
  
  
Roger's birthday party was much as I feared. After a warm welcome from my friends, I found myself alone as they paired off into their exclusive groups of two. I was appointed cameraman, as usual, in charge of preserving all the memories of this wonderful event. I filmed mostly in silence, unable to explain to myself exactly why I was making a film of something I wanted to forget.  
  
"Come on, guys, it's present time!" Mimi exclaimed, scrambling off the couch and running into the kitchen to retrieve Collins, who had appointed himself master chef in charge of the birthday cake, and Angel, who was busy frosting both the cake and Collins' nose. I took advantage of the opportunity to plunk down on the couch in her spot, right next to Roger. Very passive-aggressive, I knew, but dammit, it felt good.  
  
Only for a moment, though, and then Mimi returned and sat down in Roger's lap and the sick feeling returned to my stomach. I shut my camera off, unable to film a minute more.  
  
"Open mine and Joanne's!" Maureen exclaimed, snatching up a brightly wrapped present from the pile and tossing it across the room to Roger. "I picked it out myself."  
  
I turned my camera back on to capture Roger's expression as he tore off the wrapping paper like a little boy on Christmas Day. "Wow, Maureen, I can't believe you got me a…" His voice trailed off, and he held up a shiny metal item, unsuccessfully holding back a snort of laughter. "What the fuck is this?"  
  
"It's a garlic slicer!" Maureen exclaimed indignantly. "It was made by hand by an orphanage in Peru!"  
  
Mimi attempted unsuccessfully to stifle her giggles. "Roger and I were just talking the other day about how we needed a Peruvian garlic slicer, weren't we?"  
  
"I told you we should have gotten him the tie rack," Joanne insisted.  
  
"Since when does Roger wear ties?" Maureen shot back. "It's just like you to give impractical gifts!"  
  
"Hey, hey!" Roger insisted, obviously trying to break up the argument before it escalated into full-blown warfare. "It's great, and I love it. Thank you, Maureen and Joanne."  
  
Maureen smirked at her girlfriend. "I told you so."  
  
"Here, honey, why don't you open the next gift?" Mimi said quickly, picking up another parcel and handing it to her boyfriend. "This one's from me."  
  
The room seemed to fall silent as Roger took the package and ripped off the brightly colored paper. His face was blank at first as he picked up the record, but then the corners of his mouth began to twitch, and before long the smile lit up his entire face in a way I hadn't seen in over a year. He ran his fingers lightly over the record, then set it down and hugged Mimi to him, kissing her gently on the lips. I saw it in slow motion and in perfect detail, the way he cradled her face in his hands, the soft, feather-light kisses on her forehead and nose, the matching glows in their eyes. The way he looked at her as if no one else was in the room but the two of them.  
  
The way I always longed for him to look at me.  
  
"Mimi, this is incredible!" he exclaimed. "Where on earth did you find this?"  
  
She shot a glance over his shoulder at me. "I had a little help from a friend," she answered softly. "Happy birthday, Roger."  
  
I shut off my camera as they kissed again. Everyone else in the room was looking at Roger and Mimi, and the expressions on their faces clearly said how happy they were that Roger had found a new reason to live in Mimi. I was too. Honestly. God, why was I being such a baby about this? If I truly cared about him, then wouldn't I just want him to be happy?  
  
"Hey, Mark, where's your present, you big dork?" That teasing voice, so familiar to me, and yet so strange, unfamiliar to my ears after seven months of silence.  
  
I handed him a hastily wrapped bundle, ashamed of how little I had to give. I had gone shopping this morning, searched everywhere for a present, and come up empty handed. Finally I admitted defeat and bought a card, scribbled a brief birthday greeting inside, and wrapped up an old necktie of mine.  
  
Roger was holding it up now, his eyes darting back and forth between the tie and me. "Uh…thanks, Mark."  
  
"My uncle gave it to me when I turned sixteen," I muttered, feeling my cheeks turn red. "It's always brought me luck."  
  
"See, I *told* you we should have gotten the tie rack!" Joanne broke in, glaring at her girlfriend.  
  
Ordinarily I would have jumped in and tried to make peace between them, but today I let them fight, grateful for anything that took Roger's attention away from me and my shoddy gift. The argument continued until Angel and Collins brought in the cake, and everyone chowed down, all ill will forgotten with the taste of chocolate.  
  
I was the first to leave, begging off early on account of a long day ahead of me tomorrow (What was I talking about? When did I ever have long days?). Roger seemed disappointed, but quickly recovered when Mimi put her arms around his waist and whispered something in his ear, most likely a suggestion as to what to do with the leftover frosting.  
  
Bad Mark. Bad.  
  
"Hey, listen, thanks for coming," Roger told me, clasping my hand in his firm handshake.  
  
I forced a smile. "Any time. Happy birthday."  
  
When I got back upstairs, the only sound to greet me was the key scraping in the lock, and the deadening silence that surrounded me. And although I was the only person in the loft, I didn't feel nearly as alone as I had for the past two hours. 


	4. Thinking of the Past

A/N: ::sigh:: This chapter is Liss's fault. She said I wouldn't, and I could never resist a challenge. I'm not quite sure where to go from here, so any ideas would be most helpful! --Larissa

It's not that I am thinking of the past

And consequently feeling older

--Matt Caplan 

Roger POV

On nights when I can't sleep, I slip out Mimi's living room window onto the fire escape, where I dangle my legs off the edge as I rest my chin on the bar and let the cool wind blow over my face. It's surprisingly peaceful at three in the morning, when the rest of the world is sleeping. There are occasional signs of life--a light on in the apartment building across the street, or the alcoholic stumbling home after last call. But mostly it's silent and deserted, with no one to bother me or disturb my thoughts.

I used to do this when I lived in the loft. The fire escape was right outside my bedroom window, and I'd come outside for a breath of fresh air, and to escape from the hell my life was quickly becoming. My music was going nowhere as I became less and less interested in playing my guitar, and more concerned with my next fix. It was funny, really, because in high school, I'd never touch shit like that. It wasn't until after I met April that I got off on the long road of self-destruction. 

My friends blame her for that. I knew what Benny and Collins were saying, that April was a bad influence on me, and she was destroying the promising career I had in front of me. It's true that she fell into the crowd of users and junkies before I did. But what my friends don't understand is that I followed her of my own free will. Call me crazy, but I loved her, and I thought I could save her. 

But I couldn't, not because April was some sort of anti-Christ dedicated to my destruction, but because I was weak. I was arrogant, assuming that one little fix wouldn't hurt me, and might give me some insight into why it had such a powerful hold over my girlfriend. And because I was human, I succumbed to my addiction almost immediately.

April tried to stop me at first. She knew how badly smack could fuck up your life, and she didn't want me to follow her into the black hole of addiction. Later on, she became too wrapped up in her own problems to think of others. I did too, to a lesser extent, and maybe this was why I didn't recognize the signs when I saw them. 

She was more withdrawn than usual those last two weeks. At the time, I thought it was simply the addiction. Heroin had screwed with her personality, made my sweet, shy girlfriend turn snappish and sullen. I was used to her withdrawing from me for one reason or another, to changing her tune completely the next day and being the warm, funny person I remembered falling in love with. At the time, her behavior seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary. Looking back, I can't believe I was so blind.

The day it happened is permanently etched in my mind. I had promised April I'd be home by four so we could go out to dinner to celebrate her birthday. On my way to the Food Emporium, I ran into some friends of ours, who had just come into some money and splurged on an extra large bag of smack. They invited me to join them, and before I knew it, it was seven o'clock and I was completely wasted.

I managed to stumble home on auto-pilot, prepared to throw myself on my knees and beg for her mercy. I was so sorry, I'd tell her. I'd make this up to her if it was the last thing I did. I was still rehearsing my speech when I staggered into the loft, and found myself face to face with my roommate.

"Jesus Christ, Roger," he muttered, shaking his head. "Not again."

I felt my hackles rising. "Fuck off, Mark," I muttered, brushing past him and starting for my room. Usually he knew better than to mess with me when I was high, so I was surprised to feel him grab my arm and whirl me back around to face him.

"Roger, we have to talk," he insisted. "Something important has happened."

"I said fuck off," I snarled, yanking my arm out of his grasp. "How many times do I have to tell you to leave me alone?"

"April's dead," he blurted out. 

I stared blankly at him. "That's not funny, Mark."

"She's dead," he repeated. "I found her in the bathroom when I came home an hour ago."

To this day, I don't know whether it was the heroin or the shock that made me grab him by the collar and shove him against the wall. "I said that's not fucking funny."

I released my grip and stormed over to the bathroom, where I threw open the door. "See, nothing here!" I yelled. "What the hell are you trying to do to me?"

Then I saw it. The bundle in the bathtub, covered with the old red blanket that used to lie folded on the arm of the sofa. I approached it slowly, my heart racing. My hands trembled as I pulled back the faded wool cloth and stared into my girlfriend's face. 

It wasn't like in the movies, where the dead look like they're simply sleeping. This girl in the bathtub was almost a stranger to me. She had April's dark hair, and the mole on her left cheek, but the sparkle in her eyes, and that bewitching smile were completely missing. There was nothing left in this body of the girl I had loved.

I gathered her into my lap, rocking her back and forth against me, completely oblivious to the patches of blood that were beginning to stain my shirt. I knew I should be crying, but it didn't seem to be real. This had to be a hallucination, or a dream. If this wasn't happening, then why should I cry about it?

"Roger." 

I slowly turned my head to glare at the figure standing timidly in the doorway. "Not now, Mark," I growled.

He looked about ready to cry himself, as he set a post-it note onto the bathroom sink. "She left this for you."

I gently placed April back in the bathtub, kissed her softly on the lips, and covered her back up with the blanket. I felt completely numb as I picked up the post-it, scanning April's familiar handwriting over and over, trying to make sense of it.

_Roger, we have AIDS. I'm so sorry. April._

We have AIDS. 

I'm so sorry.

We have AIDS.

Roger, we have AIDS.

"No," I whispered. "No."

Mark took a tenative step toward me. He looked terrified, and I didn't blame him, after the way I'd shoved him earlier. "Roger, it's all right."

"No!" I howled, dropping to my knees and letting the post-it flutter out of my hand. Colors were swimming around before my eyes, reds, blues, greens, all flowing together until they finally exploded in a burst of light before darkness came up and overtook me.

I found myself shivering as I returned to the present. From the cold or from the memory, I didn't know. I climbed back into Mimi's living room, shutting the window behind me. The last thing I needed would be for her to catch a cold on my account. I didn't need any more blood on my hands.

I'd never forgiven myself for what happened to April. If I hadn't stopped to get high, if I'd been home when I said I would be, would she be alive today? I could have stopped her. I could have talked some sense into her, calmed her down. On that matter, I could have stopped her from using instead of sliding into the addiction with her. I had screwed up, and now she was dead.

When I verbalized this to Mark he told me not to be ridiculous. He said that April was in an extremely fragile emotional state, and chances were that even if I'd been here, there wouldn't be anything I could do about it. "Trust me, Roger," he'd said. "If you're determined to do something like that, there's not a whole lot anyone can do to stop you." When I asked him how he knew this, he shrugged and changed the subject. 

Speaking of Mark, I hadn't seen him in over a week, not since my birthday party. And he'd run out on that early, I remembered. Probably upset after seeing me and Mimi, I thought guiltily. Why did I keep doing this to him? Did I get some sort of perverse thrill out of making him suffer?

__

The day I met Mark, all I could think of was dorky I thought he was. Here's a guy who's never had a day of fun in his life, I remember thinking. I worked hard and played hard, while this guy seemed content to hide behind his camera and film the world going by. I never paid him much mind, not until a party I was at got a little out of hand, and I ended up in jail for throwing a couple of punches at a cop. 

I strutted into the city jail cocky as hell, but as the night wore on and the buzz from the alcohol wore off, the guys in my cell looked scarier and I became less certain I wanted to try to make it to morning. Benny would have been pissed as hell if he got wind of what I'd gotten myself into--he still thought I was a no-good punk--but at least Benny's wrath was familiar. He'd yell, he'd threaten to kick me out, but he wouldn't beat me senseless or do God knows what to me. Finally around four in the morning, I flagged down a guard and got him to take me for my one phone call.

"Speak!" the answering machine sang. Damn, everyone must be asleep. Of course they would be. Wasn't everyone, at four A.M.?

"Uh, this is Roger," I began, not knowing where to start. "I know it's late, but--"

"Hello?" a sleepy voice answered. Not Benny's, thank God.

Saved! "Mark? It's Roger."

"What time…" His voice trailed off, and I was scared to death he'd gone back to sleep.

"Mark, you've got to help me!" I exclaimed. "I've been arrested and I'm in jail and you've got to get me out of here!"

"Okay, okay," he mumbled. "Be there in a few."

The guard took me back to my cell to wait, and I sat tensely on my bed for the next forty minutes, praying that my cellmates wouldn't wake up and that Mark hadn't fallen asleep again. If I ever got out of this, I would be a changed man. No more wild parties, no more booze. I'd live straight from now on, honest to God.

"Davis," the guard growled. "Get your things. You're out of here."

He unlocked the door, and I stepped outside, unable to believe my luck. Beside him stood my roommate, looking much smaller and timider than usual, if that was at all possible.

I breathed a sigh of relief. "Thanks, Mark. I owe you one."

"There's nothing to thank me for," he insisted. "We're friends. That's what friends do."

I'd never thought of him as my friend before. Just as my shy, weird roommate. But truth be told, what Mark did for me that night was a hell of a lot more than my so-called friends had ever done for me. When the police grabbed my arms and snapped handcuffs on them, they'd run off, intent on saving themselves. Which I couldn't blame them for. But Mark had pulled himself out of bed at an ungodly hour to bail out a guy who'd barely given him the time of day. If that wasn't friendship, then what was?

Mark deserved so much better than me. He deserved someone who would fully appreciate the wonderful person that he was, and someone who would put him first for once. That was Mark's problem, he was so damn giving of himself. He never put himself first, and it was just too easy for a selfish bastard like me to walk all over him. 

And yet I couldn't give him what he needed. To admit that I remembered everything about that night, all these months later, would hurt him far more than my silence ever would. I couldn't do that. All I could do was be his friend, and hope that was enough.

I was planning on going up to the loft to visit Mark the next morning. I really was. But I couldn't bring myself to get out of bed, and then Mimi brought back coffee and muffins from the local bakery, so we ended up sitting together on the bed and watching TV together. It wasn't until mid-afternoon that I was able to get out, and while I felt guilty about that, it wasn't like it was actually hurting anything. Mark didn't know I was coming at all, so what difference did it make if I showed up at ten or at four?

I knocked on the door, feeling strange as I did so. I had lived here for so long, and I was used to coming right in. I still had my key, but it didn't feel right anymore. After all, I had chosen to move in with my girlfriend. I had chosen to leave Mark behind. Did I really have the right to come marching back into his life whenever I felt like it?

There was no response. I knocked again, louder, in case he was in the shower and couldn't hear me. "Hey, Mark, open up!" I yelled. "It's me, Roger!"

Still nothing. He must be out somewhere. I shrugged. No one could say I didn't try. 

I scribbled a brief note, _Hey, Mark, what's up? Call me! --Roger_, and shoved it under the door. My stomach began to growl, and I traipsed down the stairs, trying to figure out whether I wanted pizza or Chinese, and attempting to remember if Mimi was working tonight, or if I should bring some back for her. It was just starting to snow when I got outside and I cursed myself for not bringing a coat with me. 

I was about to go back inside for one when I caught a glimpse of a familiar plaid jacket and black and white scarf across the street. Mark. Both of his hands were weighted down with groceries, and he didn't see me as he stepped into the crosswalk.

He didn't see the light turn from green to yellow to red, or the string of cars that lurched forward toward him. He didn't hear my yell, or the roar of the red Mustang as it sped toward him, the driver oblivious to the figure in front of him. I stood rooted to the spot, one part of me leaping into the street after him, pushing him out of the way, the other firmly grounded to the sidewalk, staring in horror at the spectacle that was about to unfold. 

As I watched helplessly as the car raced toward my former roommate, I heard Mark's laughter the night of Benny's wedding, when we got drunk and I performed a rousing rendition of I've Got A Lovely Bunch of Coconuts while wearing a pair of boxer shorts on my head. I saw his smile when he walked in on the surprise party I'd arranged for his twenty-fifth birthday, and I felt again the sweetness of the kiss we'd shared, the warmth of his body next to mine, the comfort of being so close to someone again.

On the street, the car continued on its path toward my friend. Tires squealed, horns honked, and there was a sickening thud as the two collided.

When it was over, the Mustang had swerved onto the curb and stopped. Groceries were scattered all over the street, and my best friend was lying in a heap on the asphalt. "Mark!" I screamed, breaking my paralysis and racing out into the street, not caring if I got hit as well. Oh, God, please, not Mark. Please, please, not Mark.

I knelt beside him, putting my hand to his face. The driver of the Mustang had gotten out of the car and was nervously approaching us. "I didn't see him!" he exclaimed hysterically.

"Shut up!" I screamed at him. "Just shut up!" I turned back to Mark, clutching his hand tightly between both of mine. "Oh, God, Mark, please wake up."

He showed no signs of movement. The snow continued to fall as I bent over his body and sobbed.


	5. The Things That You Tell Me

A/N: Wow, I never expected this response! Leaving off there was rather mean, wasn't it? Here's the next chapter, ahead of schedule, and I hope this helps to make things up! Keep the reviews coming, after all, they keep me writing faster! --Larissa  
  
  
  
The things that you tell me don't mean a thing  
  
If you're not scared  
  
--Matt Caplan  
  
  
  
Roger POV  
  
The paramedics wouldn't let me ride in the ambulance with Mark. "Sorry, immediate family only," one of them told me. "You can get in your car and follow us."  
  
"I don't have a car and his immediate family doesn't live in New York!" I insisted. "I'm his best friend. He needs me there!"  
  
"I'm sorry, sir, but you'll need to stay here while we ask you some questions about what happened," a police officer interrupted. "You did witness the accident, didn't you?"  
  
"It wasn't an accident!" I exploded. "That bastard--" I threw an accusing finger at the driver of the Mustang "--ran down my best friend!"  
  
"Hey, maybe if your best friend was watching where he was going, I wouldn't have hit him!" the man shot back, tiny drops of spittle flying from his mouth as he spat the words at me.  
  
"You son of a bitch!" I started to lunge at him, but was restrained by the police officer.  
  
"Mr. Davis, do I have to take you into custody?" he asked me sternly. "If you want to get to the hospital with your friend, I suggest you cooperate."  
  
"Can't we do this later?" I pleaded, casting a desperate glance at the ambulance, which was just about to leave. "You don't understand, I have to be with him. I'm his best friend. He needs me."  
  
"I'm sorry, but I really need to ask you these questions right away."  
  
"Oh, God," I groaned, letting my breath out in one shaky sigh.  
  
The police officer's face seemed to soften a bit. "Why don't we take care of these questions now, and I can give you a lift to see your friend at the hospital afterwards?"  
  
It was clear from his expression that that was the best deal I'd be getting. So I backed away onto the sidewalk and watched the ambulance tear off, screaming uptown to the nearest hospital. I answered all the questions he asked me; the victim was one Mark Cohen, his parents lived in Scarsdale, he'd been crossing the street when the light changed and the driver hit him.  
  
"So he was crossing against the light?" the officer asked, jotting something down on his notepad.  
  
"Well, yeah," I admitted. "But Mark's always had his head in the clouds. He probably just didn't notice the light had changed." I brushed the snow off of my head and rubbed my nose. It was colder than I realized.  
  
"All right," the officer gave in. "Still want a lift to the hospital?"  
  
He was nice enough to put on his siren as he drove me there. Any other time I would have gotten a kick out of flying through the streets of Manhattan at fifty miles an hour, but the only thing that mattered now was that Mark was all right. Why did it have to take something like this to make me realize what was really important?  
  
Someone had called Collins about the accident, and he was at the hospital waiting for me, along with Maureen, Joanne, Angel, and Mimi. Benny was there too, his arm around Mimi's shoulders. Ordinarily I would have been pissed as hell that he was there, and that my girlfriend was letting him hug her like that. But like the ride over here, that didn't matter anymore.  
  
Please, God, let Mark live.  
  
Mimi ran over to me when I entered. She threw her arms around my waist and sobbed into my chest. I held her awkwardly, not quite sure as to what I should do. "God, Roger," she sobbed. "He's going to be all right, isn't he?"  
  
"Of course he is," I tried to assure her, hoping that if I could convince Mimi, I would make it true. "Mark's going to be fine."  
  
"What if he dies?" Maureen wailed. "What if he doesn't make it?"  
  
"Maureen, don't talk like that!" Joanne scolded. I could tell from her expression that she was scared too.  
  
The six of us squeezed onto a couch, each pair attempting to comfort each other; Collins squeezing Angel's hand, Joanne cradling Maureen's head against her shoulder. I stroked Mimi's hair and tried to dispel my growing anxiety. Mark would be all right. He just had to be.  
  
An hour ticked by. Two. Each time the doors swung open, we would all look up hopefully, praying for some news of Mark. Every time we were disappointed.  
  
I found myself thinking of a time six months ago, about two months after April died. I had locked myself in my room, only creeping out late at night for the bare essentials. I'd dropped twenty pounds since everything happened, and on the rare occasions when I glanced into the mirror, I could see that my skin was growing paler, and my hair thinner.  
  
My guitar sat in my closet, where I'd stored it the day before April's suicide. There was no music left in me, I thought bitterly to myself. Only the ticking sound of the wall clock as the second hand counted down my remaining time on earth. However long I had was too long.  
  
It was around four in the morning when I got up for my nightly kitchen raid. I'd grab some random items out of the fridge, pick at them for a couple hours, then toss them out the window, watching as they fell to the earth and splattered, and wishing I had the courage to do the same to myself. How easy it would be to simply climb up onto the rail and let go. A few seconds of free fall, and then what? Heaven? Hell? An eternity of neverending darkness?  
  
"Shit," I swore as I stumbled over a pile of papers, scattering them across the floor. I got down on my hands and knees to straighten them out, wondering at the same time why I was bothering. My girlfriend was dead. I was dying. Why the fuck did I care what my room looked like?  
  
In the moonlight, the notes danced across the paper. I crumpled it in my hand, but it was too late. I'd seen what it was. How many times had I strummed those notes on my guitar, singing the words to a blushing April, who was curled up next to me on the bed? How many times had I seen her smile and felt her kiss as I'd played my newest additions to the song for her?  
  
I threw the paper against the wall. It only made a tiny thump, not nearly enough to satisfy the rage that was beginning to rise up inside of me. "Damn you," I muttered, throwing a songbook at the wall. Better, but still not enough.  
  
"Fuck you, April!" I screamed, chucking anything I could get my hands on. Pillows, books, even my amp went flying. "God damn you for leaving me all alone!"  
  
A quiet knock came on the door. "Roger, are you all right?"  
  
"Does it sound like I'm all right?" I shouted. "Just fucking leave me alone!"  
  
The door handle turned, and Mark poked his head into the room. "Are you sure you're okay?"  
  
I wanted to scream at him again to get the fuck out of there. I wanted to grab my guitar and smash it against the wall. Instead, my knees buckled under me and I began to cry.  
  
Mark was there in an instant, holding my head against his shoulder, rubbing my back and whispering words of comfort. He held me as I cried until there were no tears left to cry, and when it was over, and I was about to keel over from exhaustion, he led me back over to my bed, where he tucked the covers around me and held my hand until I fell asleep.  
  
"I'm still here, Roger," I can hear him whispering. "I'm never going to leave you."  
  
  
  
It wasn't until a little after seven o'clock that the doctor finally came out and approached our little group on the couch. "Are you with Mark Cohen?"  
  
Collins stood up. "How is he, doctor?"  
  
"Will he be all right?" Maureen added, dabbing at her eyes with a Kleenex. "My poor little pookie…"  
  
"We don't know yet," the doctor answered. I hated how casual he was about this, how Mark was just another case to him, a folder of medical records that would be filed away with a simple note whether he lived or died. "But he's stabilized some, and should be fine through the night."  
  
"Can we see him?" Angel asked. "Please, doctor. We're so worried about him."  
  
The doctor looked around our group, taking in Maureen's tears, my gritted teeth, and the fear and anxiety that had to be in all our eyes. "Only one at a time, and no longer than five minutes each. He needs his rest."  
  
We looked around at each other, silently asking the question: who got to go first? Maureen started for the doors, but Joanne pulled her back and whispered something to her. Maureen gave her a reproachful look, then sighed and turned to me.  
  
"You go first, Roger," she said. "You're his best friend."  
  
I glanced at my friends. "Is that okay with you guys?"  
  
"Roger, go," Collins said gently. "He'll want to see you."  
  
I gave him a small smile, and followed the doctor back to Mark's room.  
  
Mark was lying quietly on the bed, the only noise in the room being the steady beep of the machine monitoring his heart rate. His glasses were missing, and he looked much younger without them, no older than eighteen. He looked almost like a stranger, without his trademark scarf or the camera in his hand. It both was and wasn't my best friend.  
  
April's limp body, covered with a blanket…  
  
I pushed the thought out of my mind. This had been an accident, plain and simple. It wasn't a repeat of what happened with April. It wasn't my fault this time.  
  
I sat down in a chair by the bed, feeling suddenly awkward. What was I supposed to do here? Was I supposed to say something? Would it make a difference if I said anything? There was no way to know if he could hear me, or even if he did, if he'd remember it when he came out of this. If he came out of this.  
  
"Uh," I began nervously. Well, wasn't this a lovely way to start. "Uh, hi, Mark. How's it going?" God, what a stupid question.  
  
"We're all really worried about you," I continued. "Everyone's here waiting to see you. Even Benny's here. He's not saying much, but I think he's more worried than he's letting on."  
  
No reaction from Mark. Of course not. Had I really expected him to miraculously wake up the moment he heard my voice? "Look, you hurry up and get better so you can get out of here, okay?" I reached for his hand and held it between mine, reassured somewhat by its warmth. "We'll throw you a huge party, okay? Invite the whole building."  
  
He looked so fragile, lying there between the sheets. His hair was all over the place, and I reached over to smooth it out. "Oh, God, Mark," I whispered. "I'm so sorry. I was going to visit you earlier today…we could have gone for groceries together, I could have stopped you from stepping off that curb…"  
  
I paused to wipe away the tears that were beginning to leak out of my eyes. "While I'm at it, I'm sorry for everything. I've been a really shitty friend, and you've always stood by me, no matter what. I haven't repaid that, have I? Just gotten high and shoved you around and walked all over you because I knew you'd never call me on it."  
  
"Look," I continued, aware that my breathing was becoming shaky and I was about two minutes from all-out bawling. "I've been a real ass, as a roommate and a friend. I'm lousy at telling people how much they mean to me, so you probably don't know that you're the best friend I ever could have had, or I'd sell my soul to the devil to make you okay again. And the sad thing is, I'd never be able to say any of this if you weren't lying here unconscious."  
  
I drew a long breath. "Mark, I have something to confess. It's nothing I'm proud of, and I hope you can forgive me one day." I paused, wondering why the words were so hard in coming. This was as easy as it was going to get. It wasn't like Mark was in any position to yell at me, or run out of the room and slam the door.  
  
"Roger?"  
  
That voice, so weak and timid, and yet the sweetest thing I'd ever heard. "Oh my God," I whispered. "Mark?"  
  
His eyes fluttered open, and his hand gripped mine tightly. 


	6. The Things I've Done

A/N: I took a few liberties with this chapter. Mark's parents are together in this one, and I hope I did a good job in portraying them. Also, this chapter has a tiny bit more slashiness in it than previous ones. I'm hoping that will start to make up for the rather nasty cliffhangers I inflicted on everyone. Thank you BroadwayDreamz, Sigh-cology, Janet, Kanoi, MimiDavis, Aella, Gemma, firedancer, Soli, Liss, and Lola for your reviews. It really means a lot to me that people are reading and enjoying this story.  
  
I'll try to write the next one as soon as I can, but I have finals coming up this week, tomorrow, Wednesday, and Thursday, so chances are most of my time will be spent studying for those. Especially chemistry, yuck. But the good news is that I'll be done after that, and I'll have some time before I start my job in which to write, etc. Roger's confession from the last chapter will come up later in the story, I promise, although at this point I'm thinking it will be toward the end. Wish me luck, and keep the reviews coming! --Larissa  
  
  
  
It's not that I regret the things I've done  
  
Or anything I've planned to  
  
--Matt Caplan  
  
  
  
Mark POV  
  
The last thing I remembered was Roger's shouts ringing in my ears.  
  
Truth be told, I had seen that the light was about to change before I set foot off the curb. I knew the traffic would be racing toward me in a matter of seconds. And I didn't give a fuck what happened to me.  
  
I could still feel the eerie calm that settled down on me as I turned to stare down the Mustang, daring it to go further, playing a one-sided game of chicken that I had no choice but to lose. So this is how it ends, I recall thinking to myself. There could be worse ways to go.  
  
Then the car hit me, and I fell to the ground. After that was nothing but darkness.  
  
I didn't know what I was expecting to come next. When I was a boy, I believed that my beloved grandfather, who had died when I was eight, would be there to meet me when I died, and would take me fishing in the afterlife just like we had done every Sunday until he got too sick to go. As I grew older, my faith subsided. I didn't particularly believe anything anymore.  
  
And it turned out that I was right all along, because there were no bright lights or long-dead relatives there to greet me. Neither, for that matter, were there fires to burn the wickedness out of me. There was simply nothing. For what felt like forever, I was hanging over an infinite sea of blackness, until I slowly became aware of the sensations under my body. A pillow beneath my head. A blanket draped over my shoulders. Someone was holding my hand, and talking to me. As I slowly returned to myself, I realized that the person with me was Roger.  
  
He sounded terrible. He rarely cried--that wasn't his thing. The last time I'd seen him this upset was after April's suicide. But here he was, clutching tightly onto my hand and fighting back the tears in his voice. And even though I hated seeing him like this, I was touched, on some tiny, selfish level, that I meant this much to him.  
  
My voice was dry and scratchy, and it took several attempts before I could actually use it. "Roger?"  
  
He had been turned to the side, one hand covering his face, barely keeping from crying. At the sound of my voice, he turned back to me, a tiny spark of hope fighting the despair in his eyes. "Oh my God. Mark?"  
  
"I'm sorry," I whispered, closing my eyes again, too tired to say anything else. "So sorry."  
  
"Mark, it wasn't your fault," he insisted. "It was an accident, and you're going to be fine."  
  
If he'd known that I'd deliberately stood there and let that car run me down, he would have given me hell for it. I felt guilty for his sympathy, and the hell I had put him through. For what, really? I was alive, although badly banged up. If this hadn't done me any good, or Roger any good, then why the hell had I done it in the first place?  
  
"Tired," I mumbled, feeling the darkness tug on me again.  
  
Roger put his hand to my face and stroked my cheek gently. "You get some rest and get well, okay?" he whispered. "I'll be here to see you really soon."  
  
"Okay." My words were becoming slurred again. "See you soon."  
  
I heard his footsteps start for the door, a pause, and then they came back over to my bed. "I love you, Mark," I heard him say. "Don't forget that."  
  
By that point, I was so sleepy that there was no way to tell if I was awake or dreaming. I felt Roger's cool hand on my forehead, smoothing back my hair, and the light brush of his lips against mine, tasting just as they had on that night so long ago. It was a dream, I told myself. It couldn't be anything else.  
  
I settled my head against my pillow and fell into a deep sleep.  
  
  
  
The next few days drifted by in a sleepy haze. When I opened my eyes, I would see Maureen, sobbing into a hankerchief, or Collins, scribbling away in his notebook. Then fatigue would wash over me and I would drift off again.  
  
When I finally woke up, the first thing I saw was Roger, asleep in the chair beside my bed. His face was dotted with stubble, and I doubted he'd shaved since everything happened. It gave him a rough and rugged look, and the stress of the ordeal was reflected in the lines cut on his face. I felt a pang of guilt, knowing that it was entirely my fault that my friends had gone through this hell. If only I'd stopped at the curb and waited for the light to change. If only I'd stepped out of the way when I saw that car coming toward me.  
  
I let out a little sigh, and Roger's eyes flew open. In spite of the pain that was throbbing in my back, I felt my heart leap as a broad smile spread across his face.  
  
"Hey, stranger," he grinned. "Have a nice nap?"  
  
I yawned. "How long have I been out of it?"  
  
"According to my count, three days so far," he answered. "How're you feeling?"  
  
"My back hurts and I've lost feeling in my left foot," I complained, and immediately felt guilty when I saw his smile falter. "But I think I'll live," I continued, managing a weak smile at him.  
  
"Well, good, because I don't intend on letting you go anywhere," he grinned. He reached out and took my hand in his. "I know I don't say this as much as I should, Mark, but you're the best friend I could ever have. I don't know what I'd do without you."  
  
A timid knock came on the door. I lifted my head, then dropped it back on the pillow, wincing from the effort.  
  
"Mark, you're awake!" Collins exclaimed, smiling broadly. "Feeling any better?"  
  
"I'll live," I assured him. "Roger tells me I've been sleeping for three days."  
  
Collins checked his watch. "More like three and a half. Feel up to more company?"  
  
It hurt to smile, but I couldn't help it. "Aw, don't tell me everyone's been waiting here all this time."  
  
"Well, Maureen and Joanne went home to shower and get some sleep," he told me. "They'll be by later today. But Angel and I have been around off and on, and Roger hasn't left the hospital since they brought you in."  
  
I was feeling better than I had in ages, even with everything that had happened to me. Roger did care about me. I was still important to him, even if he had a new girlfriend. I couldn't remember the last time I'd been this happy.  
  
"Mark?" I turned back to Collins. "Your parents are here. Do you feel like seeing them?"  
  
I didn't know why I was so surprised. My parents didn't live that far from New York, and it made perfect sense that they would come if they heard that their only son was involved in a serious accident. But I hadn't seen them in several years, and I'd come to think of my friends in New York as my family.  
  
It wasn't that I didn't get along with my relatives. It wasn't that my parents were ever mean or abusive. We had simply drifted apart, after I'd departed from the path they set for me in infancy, and struck out on my own. My mother called regularly, and my father was always after me to let him send me money, but I was determined to live my own life. It had taken me years to become independent, and although my life was far from glamorous, I had reached where I was based on my accomplishments, not just on who my father was.  
  
Now they were here, and sooner or later, I would have to see them. And although I was dreading it, it would get harder and harder the longer I put it off. "All right," I told Collins. "Bring them in."  
  
He nodded and ducked back into the hall, and before long, I spotted my mother's blonde bun and white cardigan that I always remembered her wearing. "Oh, Mark, honey," she exclaimed mournfully, planting a kiss on my forehead and straightening the bedsheets around my waist. "How's my baby feeling?"  
  
"Mom," I complained, embarrassed at being called her baby in front of Roger. "I'm going to be fine."  
  
"Your father's talking with the doctors now," she continued, plucking my glasses off of the nightstand and cleaning them on her sweater. "We haven't been able to get any answers out of them so far."  
  
"Mom, I'm going to be all right," I insisted. "I'm a little banged up, but nothing I won't get over."  
  
"Mark?" My father poked his head into the room. "How are you feeling, son?"  
  
"Fine, Dad," I told him, thoroughly sick of the question. "I'm fine."  
  
He pulled another chair up to the bed and sat down, casting an uneasy glance at Roger. "Mark, can we have a few moments alone here?"  
  
Roger pushed himself up from his chair. "I'll be back this afternoon, okay, Mark?"  
  
"No." I shook my head. "Anything you have to say, you can say in front of Roger."  
  
Dad sighed. "All right, if you insist." I watched Roger retreat to a corner, folding his arms against his chest. "Mark, you sustained serious injuries in the collision, and the doctors feel it would be best if you were to stay in an environment where you could receive round the clock care."  
  
I sighed. "Dad, could you say that again in English?"  
  
My parents exchanged glances. "Mark, your mother and I think it would be best if you came home to Scarsdale after you got out of the hospital."  
  
"What?" I blinked once. Twice. "Go back to Scarsdale?"  
  
"Mark, I'm saying this as a doctor, in addition to being your father," Dad continued. "You're going to need extensive physical therapy, and to be honest, I don't think you can make a full recovery living in your current environment."  
  
"Dr. Cohen, with all due respect," Roger began. I could see him straining to be polite. "My friends and I are perfectly capable of taking care of Mark."  
  
Dad put a hand on Roger's shoulder. "I appreciate what you're trying to do, Roger. I'm glad Mark has such supportive friends. But he needs more than that. Can you honestly say that you can take him every day to physical therapy?"  
  
Roger shrugged. "We'll make sure he gets there."  
  
"How do you plan on getting there?" Dad continued. "Do any of you own a car?" Roger looked down. "Can you afford to hire a nurse to provide the proper medical care Mark needs?"  
  
"We'll come up with something," Roger insisted. "We'll work it out."  
  
"Roger, I know you mean well," Dad told him. "But what's important here is what's best for Mark."  
  
"Then how come no one's asked me?" I demanded. "My brain wasn't damaged in the accident! I can still have an opinion!"  
  
"All right." My father turned to me. "Mark, what do you want to do?"  
  
I knew what I was going to say. I wanted to stay in New York with my friends. "I don't know," I heard myself say. "Can I think about it?" What? Where had that come from?  
  
"Of course you can." My mother patted my hand. "Take all the time you need, Mark."  
  
"That's right," Dad agreed. "You've still got another week in the hospital, so why don't you take a couple days to think about it, and let me know what you decide?"  
  
I watched the expression on Roger's face, and fought to keep it from breaking my heart. "Okay," I agreed. "I will."  
  
"Maybe I should go," Roger mumbled. "I'll see you later, Mark."  
  
He shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and stalked out of the room. I made small talk with my parents for a few minutes, then pleaded exhaustion. They left, and I fell into an uneasy sleep.  
  
  
  
The next day, I told my parents I wanted to go back to Scarsdale with them when I got out of the hospital. My father congratulated me on making a wise choice.  
  
Roger stayed away from me for the most part after that. He still showed up occasionally, but always with Maureen or Collins or Mimi. Never by himself. He was hurt that I wasn't coming back to the loft. So were my other friends, but they understood that my father was a doctor, and I'd recover faster at home than freezing in an unheated loft. At least, they assumed that was why I was leaving.  
  
And it was the reason I was going home. To recover faster. It had nothing to do with Roger.  
  
Nothing at all. 


	7. Turning Your Back On Me

A/N: I didn't think I'd get around to writing this yet, but my trig and chem finals are over, so I had a little free time and I felt inspired. I should probably mention that my stories always end up being longer than I intend, so there will probably be a lot more angst for Mark and Roger in future chapters. But I promise I will make it all worth it for them in the end. :)  
  
Thanks to BroadwayDreamz, Liss, and Lola for pestering me via IM to get this chapter out, as well as everyone else who has been so great about reviewing (Sigh-cology, Gemma, Sandy, Kanoi, firedancer, and MimiDavis). It means a lot, guys. --Larissa  
  
  
  
Turning your back on me  
  
Won't leave me weak or unprepared  
  
--Matt Caplan  
  
  
  
Roger POV  
  
I was assigned the task of going to the loft and packing a suitcase for Mark. He was leaving for Scarsdale the next day, and I got the honor on the basis of being his best friend. Some best friend, I thought bitterly. Running home to Mommy and Daddy and leaving me alone trying to figure out what the hell I would do without him.  
  
I knew I wasn't being fair. It was my own stupid fault he was leaving. I had driven him away, just as I did with everyone else I cared about. April was gone, Mark was going…how long would it be before I was left to die on my own?  
  
The spare key was still in its hiding place under the mat. The loft smelled musty when I stepped inside, but the place looked as if it expected Mark to come back in any moment. There were reminants of him everywhere-- an empty cereal bowl on the table, a sweatshirt draped across the back of the couch, and a stack of video tapes on the counter. Even though I'd lived here for over five years, it still felt funny now, like I was intruding on something that was best left alone.  
  
Don't be stupid, Roger, I instructed myself, grabbing the suitcase and opening the door to Mark's room. I had been in his room a total of three or four times in the time I'd lived here. The rest of the time the door had been shut against the world. Mark loved his privacy.  
  
I tried not to feel guilty as I flung the suitcase onto the unmade bed and opened a dresser drawer, pulling out underwear and jeans and shirts and whatever else was in there. That was the easy part. What else was I supposed to pack? Mark would want his camera, obviously, but what about the photos on his desk? Would he want the little ceramic pig Maureen had given him, or the toy disco ball we had bought years ago on a whim?  
  
Okay, let's stick with the basics, I told myself. Mark's going to want tapes for his camera. I located them in the bottom desk drawer and tossed the entire pile into the suitcase. And he'll probably need something to read, since he can't move around much. I selected a couple of paperbacks at random off of his bookshelf and threw them in. I realized I'd forgotten all about personal items like shampoo and deodorant. Those went into the suitcase as well.  
  
This didn't seem real, I thought, allowing myself a moment to fall back on the bed and stare up at the ceiling. It was oddly comforting, and it took awhile before I realized that the sheets still smelled like Mark, that sweet, comforting smell I'd memorized the night he kissed me and we spent the night curled up together in my bed.  
  
The night before I broke his heart.  
  
I stood up quickly, brushing at my clothes in the hopes that I could wipe away the guilt that was washing over me yet again. I had to hurry. Mark was getting out of the hospital at noon, and it was almost eleven right now. It would take me half an hour to get there on the subway, and I hadn't even finished packing yet.  
  
I decided to play it safe, throwing in a few items that were on his desktop and not snooping around for other things in his drawers. The ceramic pig went in, carefully cushioned in the middle of his sweaters. The disco ball stayed on the desk. I scanned the room and put in a birthday card from Collins, a couple of CDs, and an old screenplay of Mark's.  
  
The suitcase didn't want to close. I had to resort to sitting on it, and it had just closed underneath me with a disgruntled click when my eye fell on a framed photo on the nightstand. It was several years old, but I recognized it as being from after my band's first concert. My friends had waited around afterwards for me, and someone had snapped this shot of Mark and me, my arm draped around his shoulder, both of us beaming at the camera.  
  
Clothes came flying out of the suitcase when I opened it back up. I shoved them back in, slipped the picture in where the glass wouldn't break, and forced the damn suitcase shut again.  
  
  
  
Everyone was gathered at the hospital by the time I got there. They were sitting in the lobby; Collins, Angel, Mimi, Maureen, Joanne, and Benny, all clustered around Mark, who was sitting in a wheelchair. His face lit up when he saw me come in.  
  
"There he is!" he exclaimed, smiling broadly. "We were beginning to think you wouldn't show up!"  
  
"Are you kidding?" I asked, returning his smile. "I'm just late because I had to pack all your shit. I wouldn't miss this for the world."  
  
Mark smiled again, but this time, I caught a trace of sadness in it. "I'm glad you're here, Roger."  
  
I eased myself onto a bench and set the suitcase down beside me. "So where are your folks? You didn't change your mind about coming home to the loft, did you?"  
  
Mark shook his head. "No, I didn't. My parents went to get their van." He paused for a moment. "I'm sorry, Roger."  
  
"Don't be stupid," I told him. "It's your life. Why the hell should I care whether you stay or not?" I hadn't meant it the way it sounded, and I regretted it instantly the moment I saw the hurt expression on his face.  
  
"So, Mark," Collins interjected. "You promise to stay in touch?"  
  
"Of course I will," I heard my best friend say. "I'll write all the time, and you guys could come visit me, you know. Scarsdale isn't that far away."  
  
"We'll visit all the time," Mimi promised. "Roger and I will be up there so much you'll be sick of us."  
  
No one else seemed to notice the pain that flashed through Mark's eyes when Mimi said that, or when she sat down beside me and rested her head against my shoulder.  
  
"Mark?" Mark's mother joined our little group. "Mark, honey, your father's waiting outside. It's time to get going."  
  
Collins took the suitcase out to the van. I hung back as my friends said goodbye to Mark, hugging him gently as not to hurt his fragile body any more. This was it. He was really leaving, and despite all his assurances that he would be back before we knew it, I had a terrible feeling that I'd never see him again.  
  
"Well, Roger." Mark held out his hand. "I guess this is goodbye for now."  
  
My friends had backed away, and I knelt down beside him, trying to memorize how warm his hand felt in mine. "You come back to us soon, okay, Mark?"  
  
He nodded and said of course he would. I still could have kept him from leaving. Just a few words--it would have been so easy. Mark, I love you. Don't go. His eyes watched my face expectantly. I felt the words rising to the tip of my tongue. I opened my mouth.  
  
"Have a safe trip," I heard myself saying. I watched his face fall, and hated myself for hurting him yet again.  
  
His voice was little more than a whisper. "Goodbye, Roger."  
  
He wheeled himself out to the van, and his father helped him inside. I joined my friends on the sidewalk and waved until the van drove out into the street and was immediately swallowed up in the traffic.  
  
  
  
I didn't know why I felt so empty in the weeks following. After all, it wasn't like Mark had been a large part of my life before the accident. We had barely seen each other since I moved down to Mimi's, with the exception of my birthday party, when he had run out right after the cake cutting. I had known he was alone, and I'd known he was miserable. And like the bastard I was, I'd chosen not to care, and focused on my new relationship with Mimi instead.  
  
Outside, the weather began to warm, and the snow slowly melted away. At night I would lie awake for hours, trying to talk myself out of my wretchedness. This was what you wanted, wasn't it, Roger? You made that choice months ago when you lied and pretended not to know anything about kissing Mark the night before. You made that decision, and now you have to live with it.  
  
Mimi stirred beside me as I began to climb out of bed. "Roger, what is it?" she mumbled.  
  
"I'm just going to get a bit of fresh air," I told her. "I'll be back in a little bit."  
  
"Roger, what's wrong?" she insisted. "You've been acting so strange lately."  
  
I leaned over and gave her a careless peck on the cheek. "It's nothing. I'm fine."  
  
"You miss Mark, don't you?" I looked at her in the darkness, but couldn't find an appropriate reply. "I know you miss him. I miss him too."  
  
"You don't understand!" I exclaimed. "You don't know the whole story!"  
  
"Don't understand what?" she repeated. "Roger, why do I get the feeling you're not telling me something?"  
  
There was a trace of tears in her voice, and I felt guilty for that. Mimi was all I had left, and now I was driving her away too. Why was I so good at hurting everyone close to me?  
  
"I'll be back soon," I promised, brushing my hand against her cheek. "Get some sleep now. No reason both of us should be tired tomorrow."  
  
I was halfway out the window when I heard her whisper "I love you."  
  
I paused for a moment, but couldn't find it in me to say it back.  
  
  
  
I crept along the fire escape up to the top floor, where I had to tug at the window for several minutes before it gave way, and I could climb into what had been my room for so long. There was just enough moonlight to light up the room in a dim glow, luckily for me. I didn't want to attract any attention. Benny and I had made an informal truce since Mark's accident, but I had a feeling he wouldn't be too thrilled to know that I was prowling around in the loft when I didn't live here anymore.  
  
The carpet brushed my feet as I made my way out to the living room. I flopped down onto the couch, the same one April and I had watched TV together on so long ago. April was dead, I was dying, Mark was gone, and this damn sofa was still here.  
  
"Ow!" I whimpered, feeling something sharp dig into my back. I arched my back enough to pull it out and see it was a video tape. Mark had always stored his tapes in a drawer in his room, but apparently he had given that up once he had the loft to himself. I turned it over in my hands, then got up and slipped it into the VCR.  
  
My face flashed up onto the TV screen. In this shot, I was fast asleep, and to my horror, snoring with my mouth open. "Roger fell asleep about half an hour ago," Mark's voice informed me. "He'd kill me if he knew I was filming him."  
  
"You're right about that," I muttered. Good God, was I actually drooling on the pillow? Why the fuck did Mark want to preserve *that*?  
  
"I think he looks like a little boy when he sleeps," my best friend's voice went on. "This is the most relaxed I've seen him in weeks. He's a complete wreck when he's awake. He won't talk to me, he won't take his AZT…I'm really worried about him."  
  
The camera panned around the room and came to rest on Mark's face. His face was thin, and his eyes were bloodshot. I never knew how much of an effect my withdrawal had on him, I thought with a pang of guilt.  
  
"I'd do anything for him," Mark continued, his voice shaking. "But there's nothing I can do, and I feel guilty as hell that I'm going to live when he's not. It doesn't matter, anyhow. He doesn't want what I have to give him."  
  
I shut the TV off, feeling suddenly guilty, as if I'd been caught reading his diary. That tape was obviously something Mark never intended for me to see, and here I was, snooping around his things and watching his private tape.  
  
"God, I'm sorry, Mark," I muttered to myself. "How do I say I'm sorry for what might have been?"  
  
The words rang in my head. I felt my fingers twitching for my guitar. The music in my mind, which had been silent for so long, was singing in my ears again.  
  
Mimi was asleep when I entered her apartment. I tiptoed into the bedroom, grabbed my guitar, and ran back up to the loft with it. I was still playing when the first light of day filtered in through the windows. 


	8. Brings a New Beginning

A/N: I'm not too fond of this chapter. It's a little slower than the others, but I have to build up for later chapters, so what can I do? ::sighs:: But the good news is that I'm all done with finals!!  
  
This wouldn't have been done as fast as it was if it wasn't for Liss, who gave me all of two hours between posting Chapter 7 and making me start this one. So thanks, Liss, and you owe me more FMFF! It's really amazing how fluff can inspire something as angsty as this story. So read, enjoy, and keep the reviews coming! --Larissa  
  
It's not like every devastating end  
  
Brings a new beginning  
  
--Matt Caplan  
  
  
  
Mark POV  
  
My room in Scarsdale was just as I'd left it almost eight years ago, when I packed up my things for my first semester at Brown. I had been back in the years since, especially during college, but my visits had declined sharply ever since I'd moved into the city. It wasn't that I hated my family, or didn't want to see them. But I had changed so much from when I had lived here, from a naÃ¯ve young boy, to someone who was, well, different. Obviously. Duh, Mark.  
  
Dad helped me climb into bed, and brought in extra pillows to prop me up with. "Are you comfortable, Mark?" he asked. "Do you want me to bring you anything?"  
  
"I'm fine, Dad," I replied. "But thanks."  
  
He reached out and ruffled my hair. "I'll see you later, son."  
  
He shut the door behind him. It was funny, really, the fact that I'd interacted more with my father in the last eight days than I had in the previous five years of my life. It was my fault. I was the one who didn't get around to returning his phone calls, sometimes because I forgot, sometimes because I just didn't feel up to talking to him.  
  
He tried, I'll give him that. Always sent cards on my birthday and Hanukkah, always invited me for Thanksgiving dinner in Scarsdale, even though I never showed up or wrote to thank him. God, Mark, I thought to myself. You've been a really shitty son.  
  
Growing up, I was always my father's pride and joy. He was the eminent doctor, chief of surgery at the local hospital, and volunteer at a nearby clinic during his free time. When I was ten, my entire family got dressed up and went down to city hall to watch my father receive an award for his service to the community. Dr. Jacob Cohen was one of Scarsdale's most beloved residents. And as his son, I was destined to follow in his footsteps, and become as important a man as he was.  
  
My father made no secret of his desire for me to become a doctor. When I turned two, my gift from him was a toy doctor's kit, which I used to give checkups to my stuffed animals, much to his delight. By the time I was ten, Dad would take me in to the clinic after school, where I would sit in the back of the room and watch as my father administered to the sick and injured. He would introduce me when he was done, and the patient would smile at me and inquire if I was going to become a doctor just like my dad. I would nod seriously and say yes, I was, and enjoy the warm feeling I got when my father smiled proudly at me.  
  
I honestly did think that was what I wanted to do with my life. I studied hard in school, especially science. I spent a summer volunteering at the hospital while all my friends goofed off. The day I was accepted at Brown as a pre-med was the proudest day of Dad's life.  
  
I went off to college, and spent two years as a biology major. My grades were high, but I couldn't shake the feeling that I wasn't entirely happy. I told myself not to be stupid. After all, even if I didn't like the classes too much, they were only a necessary evil required to get me into medical school. It wasn't like I would be using organic chemistry when I was a doctor. And these classes were a small price to pay for being able to save lives one day.  
  
At the end of my sophomore year, my advisor told me that I needed to take a fine arts class for a general education requirement. It was a new policy: Brown wanted to send well-rounded students out into the world. I grumbled a bit, to my advisor and to my roommate, Benny, and then signed up for a film class.  
  
That class was the most amazing thing I ever experienced. I loved how the camera felt in my hands, and how people I barely knew turned to smile and wave in my direction as I was filming. I loved the late nights putting together footage in the living room, long after Benny was asleep. And I loved the feeling I got when I screened my final project for the class, and at the end, how the words "A film by Mark Cohen" flashed across the television screen.  
  
The day after the class finished, right before I was set to go home for the summer, I returned to my advisor and changed my major to film.  
  
Dad was upset when I told him, to put it mildly. He cited statistics on how few people actually made a living in the entertainment business, and the median salary for an average filmmaker living in New York. I stood firm in my decision, and finally he gave up and said that I was still his son, and he would love and support me no matter what.  
  
It hurt him a lot, though. I had rejected his profession, and in turn, rejected him and everything he wanted for me. As hard as he tried, he could never completely hide his disappointment. And I could never forgive him for that.  
  
I sighed and slumped back against the pillows. My right foot was encased in a cast, which wouldn't come off for another six weeks. I had sustained internal bleeding, so I was supposed to stay in bed as much as possible. So the stitches wouldn't tear, Dad had told me. Which made sense, but didn't change the fact that I was in for a very boring stay.  
  
There was nothing on TV. I picked up the phone and began dialing Mimi's number, then stopped. You left that life behind for a reason, Mark, I told myself. You wanted to start over, remember?  
  
My camera was lying on the nightstand beside me. I picked it up, flipped the on switch, and slowly panned around my room. "Well, here I am," I began. "Home sweet home."  
  
Something about that felt funny, and I turned it off and placed it back on the nightstand. I had spent the last six years of my life behind a camera lens, and where had it gotten me? Broke, practically homeless, and lonely as hell.  
  
Some life that I'd chosen.  
  
I opened the nightstand drawer, and placed my camera inside. Maybe my life would be better if I actually tried living it, for once.  
  
I shut the drawer and settled back against the pillows, yanking my blanket up to my chin and closing my eyes. After what felt like a very long time, I was able to fall into an uneasy sleep.  
  
  
  
The next few weeks settled into a familiar, predictable routine. I would wake up in the morning, and John would help me into whatever clothes I had selected to wear that day. Dad had hired me a private nurse about three days after I got home, sensing that it was embarrassing for me to ask for his or Mom's help in getting dressed, or getting to the bathroom. I had resisted the idea at first, hating the thought of his spending all that money on me. But Dad insisted, and after two days, I was glad I'd given in.  
  
Breakfast took place in my room for the first two weeks, until I was strong enough to use my crutches and limp out to the kitchen to eat with my parents. Then Dad would go to work, and Mom would drive John and me over to the hospital, where I had two hours of physical therapy every morning. It was long, tiring work, and frustrating, having to spend all this time and energy on relearning simple tasks that I had taken for granted for years. When I came home, I had a break for lunch, and then John would help me through my exercises designed to help speed along the therapy.  
  
Maureen and Joanne called me every Sunday, and Collins and Angel had gotten into the habit of sending me a postcard every week. I had John put them up in my room, by my bed, where I could look at them whenever I wanted. It made me feel good, knowing that my friends still cared about me.  
  
I didn't hear anything from Roger, though. And for some reason, I wasn't surprised. He was never very good at communicating, well, in any way. It hurt, yes, but I wasn't surprised. After all, I'd known the guy for six years. Nothing he did surprised me anymore.  
  
Distance had softened the blow, though. Maybe it was because I didn't have to see Roger and Mimi and their sickeningly happy relationship whenever I went out. Maybe it was because for the first time in what felt like forever, he wasn't my responsibility anymore. I didn't have to look after him, and fret about him. Or maybe it was because Roger really wasn't the right person for me, and I was finally able to realize it.  
  
So I was gay, so what? Roger wasn't the only man out there. Besides, I'd noticed, John didn't have a girlfriend, and he was pretty cute.  
  
  
  
I'll say one thing for being as badly banged up as I was. It sure gave me a lot of time to lie in bed and think. About my past, sure, about New York, and my friends, and Roger. But after awhile, my thoughts always came back to where they started from, leaving me frustrated and confused. So I started thinking about the future, about what I was going to do when I got better.  
  
At first, I assumed that this move was temporary, and I would be back at the loft as soon as I recovered from my injuries. But the more I thought about it, the less sense it made. I had been living there for six years, and what did I have to show for it? A drawer full of films that no one would show? A hopeless crush on my best friend? A broken leg and punctured lung?  
  
What would happen if I just went back to everything? My friends would be thrilled, yes, for a few days. Then I would slowly begin my retreat back into oblivion, where I had been languishing for so long. Maybe what I needed was a fresh start. Maybe this accident was what I needed to finally do something with my life.  
  
A knock on the door interrupted my thoughts. "Come in," I called, shifting myself to a more comfortable position against the pillows.  
  
The door opened a crack, and Dad popped his head in. "How are you doing here, Mark? Do you need anything?"  
  
"I'm fine," I assured him. "Just trying to find something decent on TV."  
  
"Oh." He looked a bit uncomfortable, as if he thought he should say something more. I had been home almost a month, and our conversations were still as tense and awkward as they had been when I lived in New York. "I'll just leave you to it, then."  
  
"Dad, wait," I called. He looked back at me, slightly bemused. "I wanted to get your opinion on something."  
  
"Of course, son." He stepped further into my room. "What is it?"  
  
I knew how his face would light up if I said I was thinking about going back to medicine. But I also knew I wasn't sure yet, and it would crush him if I changed my mind a second time. "Uh, when's dinner?"  
  
He gave me an odd look. "Six o'clock, same time it always is."  
  
"Guess I'm just hungry," I said carelessly, shrugging my shoulders. "Thanks, Dad."  
  
He started out of the room, then turned back to me. "Oh, Mark?"  
  
"Yeah, Dad?"  
  
"Your friend Roger called while you were napping." He paused and looked up at the ceiling, trying to remember the rest of it. I felt my heart begin to beat faster, then told myself to cut it out. "He said he has a free afternoon, and he'd like to visit. I told him it was okay. I hope that's all right."  
  
"Of course it's all right," I insisted, proud of how cool I was being about everything. "It'll be great to see him again."  
  
Dad smiled at me. "I'll let you know when he gets here."  
  
The rest of the morning dragged on interminably. TV held no interest for me, I couldn't read anything, not even the mystery novel that had held me spellbound last night. One o'clock crawled by. Two. Three. What on earth was I going to say to him? What was he going to say to me, for that matter? Four o'clock.  
  
At four thirty, I heard the doorbell ring, and my parents voices as they opened the door. This was it. Act cool, Mark, I instructed myself. He's just coming to visit his friend, that's all.  
  
Another knock came on the door, and Dad stuck his head in for the second time that day. "Mark, your guest is here."  
  
I grinned. I couldn't help it. It spread across my face, and then froze as the door opened all the way and I caught sight of the figure standing there.  
  
It was Mimi, and she was alone. 


	9. Show the World Your Song

A/N: This will be my last chapter for awhile. To make up for that, I've tried to make it as good as possible. The characters are not mine, but miracle of miracles, I do own the song. Reviews are appreciated, as always. --Larissa  
  
  
  
Mark POV  
  
  
  
Mimi gave me a small, nervous smile, not at all like how I remembered her. "Hi, Mark," she began. "Can I come in?"  
  
"What do you mean? Of course you can!" I exclaimed, gesturing to the chair beside the bed. "Don't tell me you came all the way out here and you're not going to stay to talk to me!"  
  
"Of course not." She crept timidly into the room, clutching her purse to her chest. "Roger said to tell you he's really sorry he couldn't make it. He said something about not feeling too well today. I think he's coming down with a cold."  
  
I was torn between irritation that he couldn't come up with a better excuse, and concern that it was true. What if he really was sick? Not like there was anything I could do about it in the condition I was in. Maybe that was what was wrong with me. I'd spent so much time and energy worrying about Roger that I'd completely neglected myself.  
  
Mimi was staring at me, waiting for me to say something. "Uh, I'm sorry to hear that," I blurted out. "I'm sure you're taking good care of him." Marvelously done, Mark, I thought sarcastically. Way to make an idiot out of yourself.  
  
"Oh, well, you know Roger," she grinned. "He acts like a big, tough guy, but a tiny little cold turns him into a big baby."  
  
I laughed in spite of myself. "Did I ever tell you about when he sprained his ankle ice-skating? I had to carry him piggyback all the way home because he was so sure he was crippled for life. Ten blocks from the rink to the subway, and another fifteen from the subway back home."  
  
She giggled. "I'm surprised he didn't crush you."  
  
"Hey, now," I protested. "I'm a lot stronger than I look."  
  
"You are," she agreed, now completely serious. "Mark, I don't know how anyone could make it through what you have. You've had so many obstacles thrown at you, and you keep on going."  
  
For a moment, I thought she was talking about my feelings for Roger. How on earth could she know? Had Roger told her about what happened between us that night? Oh, God, what was I supposed to say?  
  
"Uh, well, I know you guys are happy together. And I'm happy for you too, honest."  
  
Mimi looked at me, completely baffled. "Mark, what are you talking about?"  
  
Oh, shit. SHIT. She had been talking about the accident, hadn't she? Of course she had, and now I'd gone and blurted out my feelings to Roger's girlfriend.  
  
Well, fuck.  
  
"I mean," I began, desperately trying to salvage this hopeless situation. "It must be rough on everyone, not having me around." God, that didn't sound self-centered, did it?  
  
Mimi patted my hand. "We miss you a lot, Mark. Alphabet City isn't the same without you."  
  
"I miss you guys too," I replied, breathing a silent sigh of relief. "So how's everyone doing?"  
  
She launched into an account of the last few weeks, leaving me free to curl up against my pillows and catch my breath, feeling my heart rate slowly return to normal. Joanne was busy working on a big case at the moment. Maureen had gone by the office to surprise her--wearing nothing but black lace panties and a smile, Mimi assured me--but got the wrong office, and ended up giving the senior partner the surprise of his life. The doctors said he was going to be fine. It was only a minor heart attack, nothing to be too worried about. Collins was still at NYU, although Mimi had a feeling he might be plotting something similar to his stunt at MIT. He and Angel wanted to come visit me as soon as school let out for spring break.  
  
"And Roger," she continued, "Well, you know Roger. Always disappearing off to somewhere. But he misses you a lot, Mark, even if he can't always say it."  
  
"I miss him too," I replied. "And everyone else too," I added quickly. "Give them my best, will you?"  
  
"Of course I will." She handed me a small wrapped package. "Here, everyone asked me to give this to you."  
  
"Wow, thanks, Mimi!" I exclaimed, tearing open the wrapping paper. "I can't believe you guys went to all the trouble to get a…" I plucked the tiny scrap of cloth out of its wrappings, and held it up at eye level. "What the hell is this?"  
  
Mimi gave a snort of laughter. "Oh, God, Mark, I'm sorry! That's the last time Maureen gets to pick out the present!"  
  
"What the fuck?" I turned it over in my hands. "Mimi, honestly, what did she get me?"  
  
Still choking back laughter, she took the cloth from me and spread it out flat on the bed. "I think it's a thong."  
  
"With 'Fragile: Handle With Care' printed on the front," I commented. "What the fuck was she thinking?"  
  
Mimi shook her head, convulsing with silent giggles. "Does anyone know what Maureen's thinking?"  
  
"Good point." I picked it up, and on an impulse, shot it slingshot- style at Mimi. Then the hilarity of the scenario hit me, and I found myself doubled over, gasping for breath whenever the laughter let up for a moment. "Handle with care?" I wheezed. "Honestly, I can't believe I put up with her as long as I did!"  
  
"Well, it did make you laugh," Mimi pointed out, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her coat. "Maybe Maureen didn't screw up at all."  
  
"Be sure to thank her for me," I instructed her. "And thank you, Mimi, for bringing it, and for visiting me."  
  
She leaned over and pecked me on the cheek. "I'm glad I came."  
  
"Can you stay for dinner?" I pressed. "My parents wouldn't mind at all."  
  
Mimi shook her head. "I should be getting back. I promised Roger I'd be back by six tonight."  
  
A tiny pang of jealousy shot through me. What I wouldn't give to be the one who came home to Roger, and who made him dinner, and curled up on the sofa afterwards watching TV.  
  
"All right," I agreed quickly. "Tell him he'd better get his ass up here the moment he's feeling better."  
  
"I will," she promised. "Take care of yourself, Mark."  
  
"You too." I watched as she picked up her purse from the nightstand, and kissed my cheek a second time. Then she was out the door and gone.  
  
  
  
Despite Mimi's assurances of how much Roger missed me, I heard nothing from him over the next few weeks. No visits, no phone calls, not even a postcard, for Christ's sake. Strangely enough, I didn't mind as much as I thought I would. The new surroundings were doing me a world of good. I had my physical therapy, and visits from my sister Cindy and her family--they came over every Friday night for dinner.  
  
Whenever I had a free moment, I studied. I had finally worked up the nerve to talk to my father about the possibility of medical school. He promised to ask around, and came back that evening with the news that I had already taken the required science classes back at Brown. "You know, Mark," he told me. "Score well on the MCAT and you've got a good shot at this."  
  
I told him I couldn't promise anything, but I'd look into it. He agreed, and brought home some study guides for me the next night. At first I just flipped through them, but the more I studied, the more I got into it. Maybe I could do this after all. Maybe this was what I was searching for all along.  
  
Maureen went crazy when I told her what I was thinking of doing. "Mark, are you insane?" she demanded. Her voice sounded shriller over the phone. "You have to come back here! You can't just leave like that!"  
  
"Maybe I could go to school at NYU or Fordham," I suggested meekly, hoping it would be enough to calm her down. In reality, if I did this, there would be no way in hell I'd go back to New York for it. How could I get a fresh start if the past was always breathing down my neck?  
  
"What about your films?" she persisted. "You've spent years working on your movie!"  
  
"We'll see," I finally told her. She let out a sigh of annoyance, but mercifully changed the subject.  
  
  
  
I was poring over the general biology questions when my mother knocked on my door. "Mark, you've got mail," she announced, entering the room and handing me a squishy foam package. "That's odd. There's no return address here."  
  
"Oh, Maureen probably forgot to put it on," I told her. "She's always doing stuff like that." I waited until she left the room, and tore it open. A single cassette tape fell out onto my lap. I turned it over in my hands, searching for clues, but there was nothing. No labels, no note, nothing.  
  
My crutches were propped against the bed. I secured the tape between my teeth, swung myself out of bed, and limped over to my stereo, where I popped the tape in and pressed Play. There was a few seconds of silence, followed by Roger's voice, singing a song I'd never heard before.  
  
  
  
Do you remember that time so long ago?  
  
Do you remember our love?  
  
I know I saw something special about you  
  
The one I was dreaming of  
  
  
  
It's been so long now since I've seen you last  
  
I know things won't be the same  
  
But in the darkness when I close my eyes  
  
I still hear you calling my name  
  
  
  
Why is it I'm the one to screw up  
  
And yet you're the one to pay?  
  
How can we work this out  
  
When I run the other way?  
  
  
  
How do I say I'm scared  
  
Of all the things I've seen?  
  
How do I say I'm sorry  
  
For what might have been?  
  
  
  
I made so many mistakes long ago  
  
I didn't care like I should  
  
Then when you left me I hated myself  
  
I thought I'd lost you for good  
  
  
  
Finding you now would be a miracle  
  
Like a storybook romance  
  
And I just hope you can forgive my wrongs  
  
And give me another chance  
  
  
  
Why is it I'm the one to screw up  
  
And yet you're the one to pay?  
  
How can we work this out  
  
When I run the other way?  
  
  
  
How do I say I'm scared  
  
Of all the things I've seen?  
  
How do I say I'm sorry  
  
For what might have been?  
  
  
  
How do I say I'm sorry  
  
For all that might have been?  
  
  
  
The song ended. I put a hand up to my face, and realized I'd been crying. On the tape, Roger's voice was still speaking.  
  
"Mark, I love you and I'm sorry," I heard him say. "Please come home." 


	10. I Could Break You if I Wanted To

A/N: Wow, this has been a long time in coming. The next chapter won't take as long, I promise! If anyone's still reading this, I hope it was worth the wait! --Larissa  
  
Roger POV  
  
I'd been staying in the loft more and more frequently. Technically I was still living with Mimi, but nights found me climbing up the fire escape after Mimi was asleep and crawling back into the loft, where I would wander around in the darkness, or play my guitar, or simply sit in a corner of Mark's room and try to pretend that he would be back any moment.  
  
But he was gone for good. I knew this by now. Maureen had talked to him on the phone not a week ago, and said he wasn't coming back to New York, even after he got better. He was going off somewhere else, to medical school, where he would find his true calling and forget about the years he'd wasted in a shabby heatless loft, with a group of starving artists. Off to bigger and better things. To what he deserved, which was far more than anything I or this life could ever give him.  
  
From my corner, I could have sworn I heard a key turning in the door, but it was an old building, it made all sorts of noises at night, and I was far too comfortable in my corner to get up if I didn't have to. I would have to leave eventually--Mimi would wonder where I was if she woke up and found herself alone. But she had worked a double shift tonight, and she always slept like a log afterwards. I'd be back by dawn, and she wouldn't wake up until long after that.  
  
I had just worked myself into a drowsy doze, humming chords to myself, when the bedroom door creaked open. My first thought was that it was Mimi, and I sprang to my feet, my mind frantically searching for an excuse for my presence here. But then the figure stepped into a patch of moonlight, and I recognized the slender profile and faded plaid coat of my best friend.  
  
"Mark." My voice was little more than a whisper, but he jumped at the sound.  
  
"Roger." He had put on a little weight while he'd been gone, and he looked good. Much better than how I'd seen him last, a frail figure in a wheelchair. He held a cane in his right hand, but other than that, I couldn't see any signs of the accident. "What are you doing here?"  
  
Oh, God, how was I supposed to explain this? "Um, I just."  
  
He shook his head. "Never mind. It doesn't matter. It's just great to see you."  
  
He limped over and put his arms around me. I hugged him back, gently, almost afraid of hurting him again. "God, Mark, you look great."  
  
He smiled, that same, shy smile that I knew and loved. "I've missed you, Roger."  
  
"I missed you too," I replied, feeling suddenly shy. "I'm sorry I didn't come to visit you."  
  
"Never mind." He put a finger to my lips. "We're both here now."  
  
I hugged him again. I couldn't help it. "It really is great to see you. To be honest, I thought you weren't coming back."  
  
He looked at me in wide eyed amazement. "I had to come back. How could I not, after the song you sent me?"  
  
I blinked. "What song?"  
  
"You know." Even in the semi-darkness, I could tell he was blushing. God, I knew him well. "The song you wrote for me." He leaned in and kissed me.  
  
I pulled back almost immediately. "What the hell are you talking about, Mark?"  
  
He pulled a cassette tape out of his back pocket. "I got this in the mail last week. You sent it." His voice trailed off. "Didn't you?"  
  
I snatched it out of his hand. "Dammit, Mark, where the fuck did you get that? That's personal!"  
  
He had to be hopelessly confused by now. "You sent it to me!" he yelled. "I didn't think it was such a big deal to listen to it!"  
  
"I don't know where the hell you got this, but you had no business listening to it!" I shouted at him. "You know how I feel about people going through my things!"  
  
"I told you, someone sent it to me!" he almost screamed. "You would have done the same thing!"  
  
"Well, that someone made a mistake," I snapped.  
  
"You said you loved me," he insisted.  
  
"Well, I was wrong." I was furious by now. I didn't care if my words hurt him. My adrenaline was flowing, and I knew just what to say to make him as hurt as I was humiliated. "I don't love you, I love Mimi."  
  
He stood his ground. I'll give him that much. "I don't believe you, Roger."  
  
His defiance riled me up even more. "Well, here's some proof. Remember that night in December, when you kissed me? Because I sure as hell do. I was only pretending to forget."  
  
One look at his pale, stricken face told me I'd hit home. "You.you knew all along?"  
  
"That's right, I knew," I spat. "I knew we kissed that night, and I knew you were in love with me for God knows how long before that."  
  
Mark was crying now, tears silently streaming down his cheeks. "Why didn't you say anything?"  
  
"What the fuck was I supposed to say?" I shouted in exasperation. "I didn't say anything because I'm not gay! I'm not a queer, Mark! I love Mimi, and if you can't see that than that's not my fucking problem."  
  
"Why are you doing this?" he pleaded. "What are you trying to do to me?"  
  
I shrugged. "That, my friend, comes with the territory. This is what it's like to be in love with Roger Davis. Welcome to hell."  
  
He started to say something else, but I brushed past him and flung open the front door. "Roger, where the hell are you going?"  
  
"Frankly, I fail to see how that's any of your business," I informed him. "You've had your chance to run away from it all. It's my turn now."  
  
And with that, I stormed out and slammed the door behind me.  
  
Mimi was waiting for me when I burst into the apartment, slamming the door behind me. She didn't say a word but merely stared across the room at me from her position on the couch. She was wrapped up in a blanket from the bedroom, which struck me as odd, seeing as it was a warm night in May. I hoped she wasn't getting sick again.  
  
"Something's wrong, isn't it." It wasn't a question, merely a statement.  
  
I brushed her comment aside. "It's nothing important."  
  
"This is about Mark, isn't it?" Dammit, how did she do that?  
  
"Some shithead sent him my private tape!" I exploded, tightening my fist around the object in my hand. "They listened to my tape, my fucking personal tape, without my permission!"  
  
"Roger."  
  
I cut her off. "And not only do they do that, without even having the balls to tell me, but then they send it to Mark! Who would have the fucking nerve to do something like that?"  
  
She tightened her arms around herself. "Someone like me, perhaps?"  
  
My jaw dropped. "What did you say?"  
  
She slipped the blanket off her shoulders and stood up to face me. "I said, I was the one who sent Mark the tape."  
  
"What?" I repeated. "Why?"  
  
"Because you're in love with him!" she shouted, her chin quivering. "I'm not stupid, Roger. Do you think I haven't seen it before now?"  
  
I collapsed into a nearby chair. Well, now, wasn't this nice? It isn't every day that you're confronted by your girlfriend about your romantic feelings for your roommate/best friend. Male roommate/best friend.  
  
Except Mark wasn't my roommate anymore. Nor, after that little blowup, was it likely he was still my best friend either.  
  
"I don't know what to tell you, Mimi," I mumbled to the floor. "I honestly don't know what to say."  
  
"Trust me, Roger," she sighed. "There's nothing you can say right now that can possibly change the way I'm feeling."  
  
"Mimi, I'm sorry," I pleaded. "And I do love you."  
  
"I know," she said simply. "And I know that isn't enough."  
  
I hung my head. There didn't seem to be any appropriate response to that.  
  
"I'm not going to say it doesn't hurt," she continued softly. "Because it does. It hurts like hell." She looked at me with watery eyes and gave me a small smile. "But I'll get over it."  
  
"So where does this leave us?" I asked, aware the moment I finished that it was a stupid question. You don't exactly pick up a relationship after something like this happens.  
  
She shrugged. "I'm not sure yet. I was thinking of going home when my lease runs out next week."  
  
"Mimi, you don't have to leave on account of me," I protested.  
  
"Roger, I don't know how much time I have left." She paused to wipe away a tear that was trickling down her cheek. "However long that is, I want to spend it with someone who's in love with me."  
  
I took a few steps over to her and drew her close. "I'm so sorry, honey," I whispered to her. "You'll find that person someday. I know you will."  
  
She pressed her face to my shoulder, then drew back slowly. "Thank you, Roger," she whispered. "But I'm not the one who needs you right now."  
  
Oh good God. Mark. I'd said all those things to him, and then I'd stormed out and left him and who knew what he would do? "I have to go," I whispered. "Goodbye, Mimi."  
  
She nodded slowly. "Goodbye, love."  
  
I stared at her one last time, then ran out the door and bounded back up the stairs to the loft. 


	11. I Don't Objectify My Pain

A/N: This chapter is a little shorter and a lot more graphic than any of the others have been, so proceed with caution. This story's almost done, with just an epilogue to go. I'll try to get that up within a couple of days. Reviews are always appreciated! Oh, and Krissie, I am so sorry about not emailing you back. I tried to email you, and they kept getting bounced back to me. But I didn't ignore you, I swear! --Larissa  
  
It's not that I'm angry, it's not that I'm violent I don't objectify my pain. --Matt Caplan  
  
  
  
Mark POV  
  
I had been upset to the point of hysteria when Roger stormed out. I'd returned to New York not knowing what to expect, but that encounter certainly wasn't it. The one thing I had been sure of was that Roger loved me. Only he didn't. He had made that perfectly clear in our little blowup.  
  
Now that Roger was gone, and the loft was silent, my emotions melted away into a large puddle of numbness. I loved Roger, Roger hated me, and there was nothing left to live for. Oh, yes, I could go back to Scarsdale. I could make my father happy and become a doctor. Except I would never be happy. I had only just realized this.  
  
It was liberating, in a way. I wouldn't have to go home and face my parents. I wouldn't have to struggle for the rest of my life searching for something I would never find. I would simply quit. Drop out of life like I had out of pre-med. My parents would grieve, but they still had Cindy and her family. My friends would move on with their lives, as they had after April's suicide. In five years time, there would be no one left to remember Mark Cohen, how he died, or that he ever existed at all.  
  
I decided to do it in the bathroom. It seemed fitting, in some strange way. I hadn't been close to April when she was alive, but I understood her now with a clarity that I'd never had when she was alive. We had both loved Roger, and had both allowed that love to destroy us. Roger had said it himself: this was what it was like to be in love with him. Welcome to hell, Mark Cohen.  
  
That was where he had it wrong. My hell was ending now.  
  
The only razors Roger had in the bathroom were those cheap plastic ones. The handle snapped off fairly easily, but I wasted the better part of ten minutes struggling with the plastic on the bottom. One attempt resulted in my left index finger being sliced, and I watched for a moment, fascinated, as the blood welled up in large red drops. That wasn't enough, of course. No one ever died of what basically amounted to a papercut.  
  
Finally I gave up and tossed the razor into the trash. We'd always been short of kitchen utensils, but there was a paring knife in the silverware drawer. I retrieved it, and returned to the bathroom.  
  
It looked sharper than I remembered. I held it above my left wrist and lightly traced the path of the vein that ran down my arm, once, twice. On the third try, I pressed down a little, and a long red line of blood sprang up in its path.  
  
I knew it wasn't enough to kill me, and I'd have to do it again, and harder, if I wanted to succeed. I had just put the knife to my wrist again when I heard the front door slam open.  
  
"Mark?" I heard Roger shout. "Mark, where are you?"  
  
I quietly shut the bathroom door. Not quietly enough, however, because the next thing I knew, Roger had raced down the hall and thrown the door open.  
  
"Oh, Jesus," he muttered, staring at the blood on my arm. "Jesus, Mark, what are you doing?"  
  
I pressed down on the knife. More blood sprang up, and dripped down my arm to the floor. "Roger, leave me alone."  
  
"Mark, put the knife down," he insisted, holding out his hand. "Please."  
  
"Why should I?" I asked bitterly. "I didn't think you cared. You said as much not fifteen minutes ago."  
  
"I was wrong," he pleaded. "I was wrong and I'm sorry."  
  
"You're just saying that." I rolled my eyes. "Everyone's sorry when you're about to kill yourself."  
  
Roger flinched at the baldness of my words. "Mark, you don't want to do this."  
  
"Since when are you the expert on what I want?" I screamed at him. "You never gave a shit about anyone except yourself!"  
  
"You're right," he agreed. "I've been a complete ass. And I'm sorry."  
  
"Is that what you think?" I demanded. "You think you can simply apologize and everything's okay again?"  
  
"No, I don't," he said evenly. "But for God's sake, Mark, don't punish me by killing yourself."  
  
"Dammit, Roger!" I shouted. "Everything has to be about you, doesn't it?"  
  
"Mark, don't--" He reached for me. I pulled away furiously.  
  
"Don't touch me," I warned him. "I'll do it, I swear to God I will."  
  
"Please, Mark," he begged. To my surprise, I saw a tear trickle down his cheek. "I don't want to lose you." My hand began to shake. "I thought you didn't care."  
  
"You'll never know how much I care." He took a step toward me. This time I didn't back away. "Mark, give me the knife."  
  
I didn't respond, but I did let him take another step, and take the knife out of my hand. He set it on top of the medicine cabinet, then took off his shirt and helped me wrap it tightly around my arm to stop the bleeding. Then he wrapped his arms around me.  
  
"It's going to be okay," he whispered. "I'm going to make everything up to you."  
  
He held me for a long time as I cried. 


	12. Epilogue

A/N: Well, this is it. This is short, again, but I didn't want to delay on this any more. And I wanted to thank everyone who's reviewed. It really means a lot to me that so many people liked my story. You guys are the best! --Larissa  
  
When I took Mark to the hospital, it took them a mere half an hour to bandage his arm. He needed a few stitches, or else it would have been even quicker. But then they started asking how he had hurt himself, and when Mark told them, ashamed, his eyes boring into the floor, they had him stay a week in the psychiatric ward.  
  
He was allowed visitors, though, and I was there every day, one to three. He couldn't leave the hospital, but we could walk around a bit. I took him down to the cafeteria and bought him coffee, or we'd take the elevator up to the roof and look down at the city. One time I brought my guitar in and played my song for him. He cried when I finished, and I hugged him, trying not to think about how I'd almost lost the best thing I had in my life.  
  
Which brings me to now. We're all gathered in the loft again, just like old times. Maureen and Joanne bickering over whose turn it was to buy the milk. Angel sitting on Collins' lap, and Mimi feeding grapes to her new boyfriend Justin. Mark and I are on the couch, his head resting against my shoulder, my hand rumpling his hair.  
  
It's funny, really, how right this feels. I feel downright foolish when I think of how long I've resisted it. And ashamed when I think of the hell I put Mark through.  
  
He's very forgiving, though. Much more than I would have been in his situation. I'm not sure I deserve him, but I'm determined to prove his faith in me. I promised him that. "I'm going to make everything up to you," I'd whispered to him as he cried in my arms. "I'm not going to let anything else hurt you."  
  
He still has to attend counseling once a week for six months. We've developed a ritual-I meet him after each session, and we go out to dinner. I don't know how I got so lucky as to have someone like him love me.  
  
I think Mark's going to be okay. What's more, I think I'm finally going to be okay too. We found that sign after all. We found our new beginning. 


End file.
